Chronicling Babylon
by Coralfly
Summary: Tristan and Rory: stuck in the abyss of something more and something less; there are choices, decisions and consequences... [Complete]
1. Genesis

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Disclaimer: The characters of Tristan DuGrey and Rory Gilmore do not belong to me. They are the property of the WB, Amy Sherman-Palladino and affiliates.

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Chronicling Babylon

1. Genesis

It was not bright and sunny nor was it dark, gray and gloomy. The morning light spilling through the windows promised a moderate day, neither too hot nor too cold but a satisfying medium of the two. Essentially, it was perfect weekend - more precisely Sunday - weather; it invited a certain amount of slothfulness from a person. Hence at eleven am, Tristan was content to lie in bed doing nothing. He did not sleep although he currently dwelled on the edge of it, awake but dreaming. His eyelids drooped heavily against his eyes, and they would flutter shut and then open and then shut again. The balcony door was slightly ajar and air crept in, swirling about the room with a hint of early morning coolness although it was now almost mid-day. Because of the breeze, the white, cotton curtains danced giving him brief glimpses of the outside world. The city was resplendent with its high-rise, skyscraper buildings, the cars, the people, the traffic and the dirt. It was a city that had prospered and grown fat with riches; had some compelling hold over the people of the world. This city lured and allured, sparkled and bred, expanded to the heavens. And through the open door, the noise and smell of life and pollution from the city filtered through adding to the lazy haze of this Sunday. Tristan decided he would stay here, in this very position, all day, except for when the basic callings of nature such as hunger and thirst called.

He lived in one of the highest towers of this unfinished city, on the top floor with space to breathe. He lived a privileged existence and often thought of his fortune in a contemplative, philosophical, sometimes cynical manner. Other times he just tried not to think. And when he didn't think, he acted. He was a great actor. His fancies, his whims, his impulses, his emotions would come rushing out, controlled and uncontrolled. They spilled out with a life force of their own, so that everything he did had extra layers and meanings. Tristan ricocheted between stability and instability; he was all about dichotomies. He lived for the highs and the lows, and when life was linear he would grow restless. That meant that eventually mistakes would occur, but he had money, prestige and the DuGrey name. Mistakes could be covered, hidden, bought off and made to disappear. He had no regrets, and that was his mantra. _No regrets, no regrets, no regrets._

His bedroom was almost all white: the walls, the bed, the carpet although it was more creamy than white. There were potted plants of green to add color and a mural of photographs of places he had been and people he knew scattered all over the room. On the floor were a few books and papers, a black sock and a navy colored one, a tie and a rumpled shirt; the room sat happily on the border between neat and messy. His head rested on three plump pillows with a small assortment of cushions around him. The sheets were pulled up to his chin and he enjoyed the feel of cotton against his skin as he moved restlessly in his bed. Still, despite his unsettled state, the room was heavy with lethargy. Again his eyelids shut and for a while he dallied with sleep but the rattling click of lock and key meeting interrupted the sound and rhythm of the room. A smile crept across his face; Tristan knew that it could only be one person. The soft familiar pad of feet and then the wafting aroma of coffee confirmed his suspicions even before his bedroom door opened to reveal his guest.

"Hey," he greeted her, though he did not bother to open his eyes.

"Hey yourself," she replied. "It's almost twelve. Time to get up, Tristan."

"I'm already up, Rory," he leered a little, adding innuendo to his words, and casually opened one eye to peek at her before shutting it.

"I can see that," she answered, ignoring the obvious, overt meaning.

"You can feel it too."

"Take your coffee and drink up," she commanded, "You need it. Usually you have more finesse but today you've only managed crude so far."

Sighing with resignation, he opened his eyes and took the coffee without further comment except to mutter, "Thank you."

"So, feel more awake now?"

"Maybe."

"Good, then you can get out of bed."

"I don't want to," came Tristan's petulant reply.

"Well, you have to."

"Why?"

"Because I have a list!" Triumphantly Rory pulled out a piece of paper and waved it in front of his face. "There are things to do, mister. The list says so. And for us to do them, you'll have to get out of bed."

"Let me have a proper look at that." When Rory handed the piece of paper over to Tristan, he gave it a cursorily glance before casually tearing it into shreds.

"You-you destroyed the list!"

"Yup."

"You _destroyed_ the list," she repeated, flabbergasted at his impertinence.

"No list, no things to do. No things to do, no need to get out of bed." Sliding an arm around her waist, he pulled her down, on top of him. "Rest."

"I hate you," mumbled Rory as she gave in. "I spent a good deal of time on that list, and you just tear it up and disrespect it. Remind me why I am best friends with you?"

"Because I give good massages," Tristan replied as he began to rub her shoulders.

"Unfair," she gave a weak, obligatory protest. "Don't think that this by any means makes up for the destruction of the list."

"Shhh." He pressed a finger against her lips, more of a demonstrative act than an effective means of shutting Rory up.

"Don't tell me to shhh," came her incensed reply. She twisted around to glare at him and he smirked at the sight, which made her scowl. "You're impossible."

"And you wouldn't have me any other way."

She conceded his point by turning round and resting her head on his chest, finally allowing herself to completely relax. By some mutual, unspoken agreement they let the quiet humdrum of the city outside take over. The silence between them added to the tranquillity and the idleness of the day; they were completely at ease with one another. Almost absent-mindedly, he circled the skin of her shoulder while she drew tiny pictures on his arm. The passing of time went unnoticed by the two and without knowing it, they both fell asleep.

*****

__

Origin: a seed buried in the deep recesses of the warm, dark earth. In time a little green would emerge - a sprout of life sucking in carbon dioxide, absorbing the rays of the sun and quenching its thirst with water. It would grow and take its rightful place in nature until finally its life cycle had expired, and then it would be gone with only traces and memories to signify its existence.

They bought a sapling, a young apple tree, and decided to plant it in the garden of the DuGrey mansion, in Hartford. The planting took place near midnight with the glow of a reddish, quarter moon shining down upon them. Like people with secrets, they dressed in black and carried torches, to bury the roots of the sapling in the ground.

"You could help with digging this hole," Tristan complained.

"I'm holding the light," defended Rory. "We can't both very well dig. We only have one spade. And besides, it would be too dark. We need light and I'm the source of light, or rather the bearer of the source of light. My task may seem trite but really it is very important."

"So, let me hold the torch and you dig."

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"B-because you're the man!"

"And this line of argument coming from Ms. Feminist, herself?"

"Hey, this whole planting an apple tree in your parents' garden, in the middle of the night, was your idea. I'm just here to help."

"And a lot of help you're providing," came Tristan's sarcastic reply.

"Hello? Are we forgetting something? I'm acting as the torchbearer. If I decided to walk away, then you'd be left alone in the dark and in a quandary. So, you should start showing some respect."

"Whatever," he grunted. "There. I think I'm done; the hole looks big enough."

"Hmmm. Maybe a little bit deeper?"

"You just want to see me sweat."

"Yes, that's the very reason, I live to see you sweat. Quit complaining DuGrey and start digging."

"I'm digging. I'm digging."

"Oh, wait! Stop! Gah, now you've done it. The hole is too big now. Add a little bit of dirt to fill it up."

"Now, the hole looks exactly the same size as it did before," he observed, though there was a hint of accusation in his voice.

"Well, I wasn't sure if it was big enough last time. But now I know that it was big enough. So, shouldn't you plant the tree?"

"I'm doing it now, so quit fussing. Y'know, if there is one thing this experience has taught me, it's that you're quite the dictator, Ms. Rory Gilmore."

"Hey!" she responded indignantly, and punched Tristan on the arm. "I'm just telling you how it should be done because you haven't been doing it right. Besides, I would've thought that the one thing this experience would've taught you was that planting trees is best done in daylight."

"Ah yes, but you're forgetting my mother who would thoroughly object to an apple tree being in her garden. Which is why we're planting it covertly, and in a hidden corner of the garden."

"Do you think it'll get enough light, here in this lonesome corner?" Rory worried.

"It'll be fine, I'll make sure."

"You better," she threatened. A few seconds later a thought occurred to her, "Tristan?"

"Yeah?"

"Why are we planting an apple tree in your garden?"

"Because it'll annoy the hell out of my mother, and that will give me personal satisfaction."

"Aren't you a little too old for that now?"

"I'm never too old to piss off my mother."

"Okay, then why an apple tree? Why not an apricot tree? Or a plum? A pear? A lemon tree?"

"No reason. It's as good as any other." The tree was now seated comfortably in the ground with the loose earth he had dug up surrounding it, and patted firmly down. "So, we're done. It looks good."

"Very good," Rory agreed. "When it eventually bears fruit, I'm going to have try an apple from the tree."

"We'll share the first taste together," he promised.

*****

Tristan woke up with a start and rolled over, the clock face showing that it was almost six p.m. Somehow, he had managed to sleep most of his Sunday away. Sleepily he rubbed his eyes and became aware of the emptiness of his bed. There was an imprint on the pillow, on the right side of him, indicating that Rory had been in bed with him. His stomach grumbled reminding Tristan that he had only drunk coffee for breakfast and missed out on lunch altogether. Reluctantly he made himself sit up, the slow process of getting up and out of bed.

The demands of his stomach took precedent and so Tristan wandered over to his kitchen. He tried to remember what food he did have: some dry biscuits, chocolate, some wine, a pint of ice cream and an almost empty box of cereal. If he were lucky there might be a banana - he couldn't remember if he had eaten it already - not enough for a proper meal, so he would have to call for take-out. Still, he needed to find some sort of snack to tide him over while he waited for the delivery. However, before he could begin rummaging his cupboards and shelves in the hunt for food, he found a note from Rory resting on the top of his kitchen table. In it, she informed him that she had gone shopping and deigned it upon herself to stock up his shelves; all his favorites and necessities bought. There was also dinner waiting for him in the fridge, and he could pay her back later. Opening his fridge, Tristan discovered a box of noodles from one of his regular haunts; a Chinese restaurant some blocks away owned by a thin, wiry man who captained his restaurant like an emperor, bestowing lavish gifts of tasty food to all his guests with a flourish and a toothy smile. Silently Tristan thanked Rory as he grabbed the container. A quick spin in the microwave, a few minutes later, and the noodles were hot and ready to eat. Grabbing the wooden chopsticks he headed to the balcony, ignoring the entreats of the television and the demands of various papers and books. 

He sat perched precariously on the wide ledge of the balcony, impervious to the danger, munching on his noodles. The next-door neighbors were fighting again; he could hear the screams.

"I hate you! You bloody bastard. Get out of my sight!" came the shrill voice of the female.

"C'mon baby. Don't be like that," cajoled the male.

"Don't be like that? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Nothing. It's just that you're being-"

"If you say irrational, I'm throwing you out!"

The next words were muffled and Tristan imagined the rest of the conversation. He'd have to tell Rory about this latest, soap-operatic event; she'd bemoan the fact that she'd missed it and demand for details. Tristan's neighbors were an enigma. Neither he nor Rory had seen them properly, only shadows and sketchy figures. And the couple fought incessantly, always bordering on the verge of break-up but never quite making it. It was fascinating. He slurped the last of his noodles and went inside, just as the moans from next-door commenced.

*****

Today was Monday because yesterday had been Sunday. His alarm clock had awaken him promptly at six a.m. He had rolled over, turned the damn thing off and then after a moment of contemplation picked up the phone and dialed Rory's number.

"Hello?" came her groggy answer.

"It's me. We're playing hooky today."

"You're not in high school anymore, Tristan."

"I know you have a bundle of unused sick days, Gilmore. Plus, I know a doctor so there'll be no problem with a medical certificate."

"There's something fundamentally wrong with your line of thinking. I think it has to do with morals and the fact that taking a sick day when you're not sick is wrong."

"You've done it before," countered Tristan.

"And I blame it entirely on your evil influence."

"So, is that a yes?"

"The usual place at seven," Rory conceded, "But, if you're even five minutes late, I'm going to work."

"I'll be there, trust me."

"Hah! Easier said than done."

"You wound me, Mary."

"Grow up, Tristan. And remember, seven o'clock," she gave her final warning before hanging up.

He took a taxi to meet Rory because he could afford it and because the hassle of public transport simply wasn't worth it. The time was four minutes past seven when he entered the café. He spotted her sitting at a corner table with two cups of coffee and two blueberry muffins.

"Hey."

She frowned at him, "You're late."

"Yes, but I had five minutes leeway and it's not yet five past seven, therefore I'm still good."

"Just once I'd like to see you early or on time for something."

"Now that would just be unnatural," he protested.

"No, it wouldn't. Nature has nothing to do with your inability to be punctual; social conditioning, environmental factors maybe but not nature."

"Okay then, my lateness has become ingrained in my behavior. I've learnt or been conditioned to be late. I'm a victim of lax, poor upbringing."

"Just sit down, Tristan, and eat your muffin."

"I like it when you get bossy."

"Eat!"

He grinned, incorrigible and ever youthful, before taking a big bite of his muffin. "So, I've been thinking…"

"Stop! Hold the presses! Tristan DuGrey has been thinking!"

Tristan scowled at Rory, "That's just so old."

"Sometime the old ones are the best."

"You could have done better."

"Nothing new seemed as appropriate. So, are you going to tell me what you've been thinking or will I have to drag it out of you using the ancient Gilmore torture?"

"Ancient Gilmore torture? That's a new one. I don't think I've heard it before."

"That's because, miraculously, you've never done anything to warrant such treatment…yet."

"Really? Because I thought last time with the hair and the feather boa…"

"That was you?" Rory screeched.

"Nope," Tristan denied too quickly. "Not me. That was just a hypothetical. A what if. Like, what if I had been responsible for the hair and feather boa incident? Would that warrant the ancient Gilmore torture?"

"Yes. And worse."

He was taking a sip of his coffee when she answered his question and promptly began to choke. "Worse? There's worse?"

"Oh yes. I am my mother's daughter and she has taught me much."

"I just want to make it utterly and abundantly clear that I had nothing to do with the hair and feather boa incident."

"Well, good." Rory nodded her approval as she relished her coffee. "Because, you're my best friend and I'd hate to lose you but…"

"It wasn't me, honest. So, uh, today…I was thinking the park."

"Really? The park? Because we haven't been there for a while." Her voice was wistful.

"We can buy supplies and we'll need a new basket, because the old one got…"

"Oh yes, I remember," Rory chuckled, "It seems so long ago. They were good times. We never seem to do stuff like that anymore, why?"

"Maybe because we're older. More responsible. There's work. And work. And more work. It seems hard enough just to keep in touch and socialize, let alone anything else. Sometimes I get so tired."

"But we're doing what we set out to do, so it should make it all worthwhile."

"Yeah, but does it?"

"I miss Stars Hollow," she confessed. "I'm sick of the city."

"The city's not that bad a place," Tristan suddenly felt compelled to say.

"Oh, she's not. She's been good to us. But…"

"You could always go back," he suggested, "Work freelance or something. You've made a name for yourself now, Rory."

"No," she shook her head, "it isn't time. We should go buy that basket now, and our supplies."

"Yeah, all right." He shot her some curious glances, but Rory seemed fine like she was just blowing off steam; like it didn't matter and wasn't indicative of anything. He accepted it at face value because there was nothing else he could do.

*****

It was a pretty enough park with appreciable aesthetic beauty; poets might write sonnets or odes to the grass or the numerous trees, or the expanse of water that made the large pond. Tristan, however, had never really been poetically inclined unless it was to toss a line or so out as he wooed some girl. French poetry did wonders, and could cause the coldest of hearts to melt under the influence of his husky, rhythmic tones. There were also your typical sources such as Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Donne, which were always met with approval. Still, there was something about this park - sentimental value - which gave it its appeal. As students, Tristan and Rory had spent many of their days here. He had first, _really_, fallen in love with her, here. One spring afternoon they had ambled aimlessly across the grounds and the skies had suddenly opened and rain had come pouring down. She had run for cover and he had stood there dumbly, his heart beating erratically in his chest, and thinking that this must be love. They hadn't gotten together, then or later, but the experience of knowing that Cupid's arrow had hit you, for the first time, unawares, would remain with Tristan forever. Thus, the park held its own beauty, illuminated by his memories.

They settled down at a favorite spot of theirs: atop a slope, near some oak trees, with a clear look of the lake. A huge woody basket filled with innumerable goodies was set down on the grass and soon after a checkered picnic blanket, which they sat on. 

"I wish the others were here with us," she commented.

"What, my company not good enough for you, Gilmore?" Tristan asked.

"No, it's not that. I just wished the others were here. It would be like old times."

"Back then, we spent as much time alone in the park as we did with the others," he reminded her.

"Yes. Still…"

"What's going on, Rory?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've known you for too long. You're too pensive. You gave in too easily on Sunday and now today. Usually you'd put in more of a fight before I could wheedle you around to my way of thinking."

"Maybe because I know that it's futile to fight with you?"

"Nope, that's too easy."

"Sometimes it is the easiest answers, Tristan. Don't look for complications when there are none."

"Maybe…" He stared deliberately, pointedly, thoughtfully into her eyes but she looked away, and that hurt.

"Let's eat," she stated, her eyes still averted from his. She handed him the sandwiches made from a small but popular deli at the corner of Third and Market Street. The bread was baked daily there - fresh, airy and soft with the perfect brown crust - and when you bit into it, you could imagine that this was the bread of Gods.

He took the sandwich she had offered him and with his thumb and index finger broke a bit off, popping the tiny piece into his mouth where he proceeded to chew in silence. The silence between them was telling but there was miscommunication; he jumped to conclusions and made assumptions, and that hurt him even more. He could not stand the silence - something which was usually so companionable and comforting - so he racked his mind for things to say.

"Oh, before I forget, here's the money I owe you for Sunday," Tristan finally said as he tossed a few notes in Rory's direction. He watched her gather them up and stuff them in her wallet before adding, somewhat nonchalantly, "This isn't as fun as I thought it would be."

"We probably shouldn't have done it in the first place. I have an article to work on and I have responsibilities. So do you."

"Perhaps we should leave."

Rory nodded her head, "I think that would be best."

Tristan stood up, wiping the crumbs off his pants, and began the process of packing up. Rory helped him - they folded the checkered blanket together - and when their fingers accidentally brushed, they looked up and smiled at one another and suddenly everything was okay.

"I love this park. Thank you for taking me here today, Tristan."

"No problem." He swung his left arm around Rory's shoulders and held her close to him; his right hand held the semi-full basket.

They left their spot; they left the park; they headed home as the afternoon sun shone down upon them.

*****

Tuesday, Rory called during Tristan's lunch break, just to talk. He spent the whole hour on the phone with her. She rarely called him during working hours and so it was an unexpected surprise and treat. According to her, it was a kind of thank you for Monday and the park. Towards the end of the conversation she invited him over for a home-cooked meal on Wednesday, tomorrow, night. Tristan quickly agreed; he was no fool. She had learnt to cook via necessity and her cooking was more than passable although she was no Donna Reed, not that he wanted her like that anyway.

Wednesday night arrived, and he stood in front of her door; one hand held a choice selection of red wine and the other held a bunch of flowers, an impulse buy. For some strange reason he was nervous; his stomach somersaulted in the most annoying, uncomfortable manner. Shifting his weight to the heels of his feet and then to the forefront, Tristan stood rocking as he contemplated the door. He had never really noticed Rory's door before. It was an ordinary enough door, nondescript and uniform; the same bluestone gray color as all the other doors in her building. The gold plated numbers - five, zero and three - were relatively straight although the screw on the three appeared to be coming loose, giving the number a slightly slanted look. He would have to tell her to call maintenance to fix it, although Tristan thought he might have a screwdriver set hidden somewhere in his apartment. A Phillips screwdriver was all that was needed, and he was confident that it was within his capabilities to straighten the three and tighten the screw.

The door suddenly swung open, without Tristan ever knocking to announce his presence outside. Rory, dressed casually in jeans and sweater, stared at him amused and asked, "Are you planning on standing there all day or are you going to come in?"

"In. I'm coming in. By the way, these are for you." He thrust the flowers and the wine out in the general vicinity of Rory.

"Flowers and wine? Impressive, DuGrey."

"Well, you are cooking dinner for me, which smells delicious."

"Haven't you learnt anything by now? Always reserve judgment until after you've tasted," she cackled.

"Yes, I remember the time you tried to poison me with gypsum."

"I thought it was corn flour!" she protested.

"Very likely story, Gilmore. And you never did explain why you had a bottle of gypsum conveniently lying around in your kitchen."

"That's because I have no explanation. It's one of those unsolved mysteries." 

"I'm beginning to think that take-out is a very good idea."

"Fine," Rory huffed, "after I slaved in front of the stove all day, see how you treat me. Men are so unappreciative of women, and all the housewifery they do. No wonder, on average, married women have worse health than their unmarried counterparts."

"There is a pointed remark about marriage and men in that statement but I'm choosing not to read anything into it because I know you're better than that, Gilmore."

"And if I'm not?" she countered.

Tristan disagreed, "But you are. So, what poison have you cooked up for me to eat tonight?"

"Well, there's abalone and truffles."

"Are you making fun of the food that was served at my last party?"

"Oh, I'm sure the food cost a lot but I'm much happier with a burger from Luke's diner."

"Actually," he confessed, "so am I."

"Then you'll be happy to know that I've made burgers. Not as good as Luke's but edible." She gestured to the two plates on the coffee table. "I thought we'd eat on the couch instead of the table."

"Sounds good to me," Tristan shouted as he headed into her kitchen to grab two mugs and a corkscrew. The wine was poured into two Charlie's Angels mugs, which matched the Charlie's Angels plates in which the burgers were served on.

"I get Farah Fawcett," Rory claimed.

"Oooh…I'd like to-"

"Pervert."

"What can I say?" asked Tristan, an impish grin plastered on his face. "I'm a guy."

"I know." She paused to pick up her burger but didn't eat, instead she concentrated on picking the sesame seeds off the bun. He didn't really pay attention to her, more focused on the task of eating; catching wayward pieces of tomato, lettuce and onion as they fell from the burger and licking drops of ketchup off his fingers. Rory continued to watch him, still not having touched her own food except to twist a fry into a distorted shape, until she finally decided to speak. "Tristan?"

"Yeah?"

"I-I-"

He turned to look at her, a curious expression on his face. "Yes?"

"Um, you've got some ketchup on the left side of your mouth."

"Oh, well, could you-?" Rory complied to his half-asked question by wiping the sauce off his face with a napkin. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"Was there anything else?"

"Uh, no."

"Okay."

They fell into silence again except for the intermittent sounds of Tristan's chewing. It was remarkable that away from the social dictates of his upper-class world, Tristan easily reverted to the messy, noisy boy that secretly resided inside of him, despite years of training, refinement and etiquette. She continued to observe him before letting out a quiet and barely audible sigh, and then picked up her own burger and began eating. The rest of the dinner was finished, not in silence, but with a dumb muteness that seemed to have struck them both. Every now and then conversation would start up but it was clumsy, the words awkward and shallow. They drank the entire bottle of wine because that helped loosen their tongues and talking became less difficult. When the clock chimed the lateness of the hour, Tristan got up to leave with the feeling that something had been left unsaid, at least on Rory's part.

"Hey," he started tentatively as he put his coat on, "was there something you wanted to say to me tonight? Because I got the feeling that-"

"No," she denied.

"Okay." He opened the door and stepped out.

"Wait! There was this one thing."

"Yeah?"

"I just…I just wanted to say thank you."

"Thank you?"

"For Monday. The park." Rory clarified.

"Oh well, it was nothing. Just me being my normal deviant, truant self and dragging you down with me."

"I know. Still, thank you." She shot him a smile then; a bright, bona fide smile that was all Rory. And he couldn't help smiling back because that was what she did to him.

The rest of the week was spent in Rory's company. On Thursday they went out to the movies together. Friday, after work, they went bar hopping in an attempt to relive the glory days of their college years. Sadly, Tristan discovered that while he was still impressive, he could no longer hold his own against the younger generation that downed beer as if they had hollow stomachs. He complained sorely to Rory, something about being old and losing his touch and she laughed indulgently and stated that she liked him just the way he was now. Saturday, in attempt to prove that while his alcohol intake may have diminished he still had the body (and activity) of a twenty-year old, Tristan and Rory went salsa dancing. If once or twice he felt the niggling strain of muscles he never showed it. All night they danced to the sultry sounds of the music, spinning one another until they were beyond dizzy. Lots of grinding and lots of sweat. It was the perfect night and he was still swaying when the taxi dropped Rory off and, later still, performing little dance steps as he opened the door to his apartment.

*****

He could feel the eyes of someone upon him; the uncanny feeling of knowing that you were being watched, which made your whole body alert and, in this case, woke Tristan up. And in waking up and gathering his bearings, he knew all at once whom it was staring down at him though he had yet to open his eyes. He decided to lie there, feigning sleep, as he waited for her to make the first move. What he didn't expect was her first move to be the swiveling of her body as she turned to leave his bedroom.

"Where are you going?"

"You're awake," she turned back round to face him, a look of surprise on her face.

"Yeah. Why were you leaving?"

"You were asleep and I didn't want to wake you."

"I wouldn't have minded, you know that, Rory, despite the fact that it's abnormally early. You're crazy to be up this early especially after last night," he teased.

"Yeah. I'm sorry about waking you up. You should go back to sleep. I'll just go."

"Hey, no need. After all, I'm awake now."

She bit the bottom of her lip and cast her eyes to his windows. "It's going to be a nice day, today. Sunny weather. Warm."

"Is that going to be essential for the plans you have today?" Tristan queried. "Because I was wondering if I could convince you to forgo that list of yours and spend the day lazing about with me. I'm going to admit, but only once, that I'm not as young as I used to be. The salsa dancing took more out of me than I expected."

"Actually," Rory hesitated, her eyes still gazing out at the city, which was glowing with the colors of sunrise. "I'm going to have to pass. That's why I came, to tell you that I couldn't make it today."

"A phone call would have done just as well, Gilmore."

"It's more than just today, Tristan."

The seriousness of her voice struck him as odd. She wasn't looking at him and he felt the impending fear and knowledge that he was about to be blind-sided. "You can't make it next weekend, either?" he asked lightly.

"Not just next weekend."

"For how long?" His throat felt dry and constricted and it was hard to sound casual and normal, if he knew what normal was.

"A while."

"Rory? What's going on?"

"I'm moving away. I'm going to be the new international correspondent for-"

"No," he shook his head, "it's more than that. If it'd just been that you would have told me sooner. There's something else. Or…or some_one_ else?"

"He's no one important, Tristan."

"He has to be someone important if you're going to uproot your life for him."

"I'm not doing it for him, I'm doing it for me."

"And what about me?"

"What about you?" She turned now, and her eyes were a little fierce, a little angry.

"I'm your best friend, Rory."

"Yes, you are. You're my best _friend_."

"What-," he tried not to choke on the words as he spoke, "what if I told you I loved you?"

Her voice and eyes softened, "I love you too, Tristan."

"No," he shook his head vehemently and reached out to grasp her hand, "I mean, I'm in love with you."

"Don't. Don't do this."

"Do what? Tell you the truth?"

"If it was the truth then why are you saying it now? If you were really in love with me, we would have been together a long time ago."

"Maybe. Maybe not. You see, maybe we just could never get it right. You were dating someone or I was dating someone. And maybe we were just biding our time for when it was right."

"Even if that was true, now isn't the right time."

"But it is. It could be. I mean, all this week, hasn't it shown you-" And then realization occurred, and he reeled back, dropping her hand like her touch had burnt him. "You were saying your good-byes."

"I couldn't just leave."

"And what were you doing just before?" he accused. "You thought I was asleep and you were going to leave without a word."

"I had to. My plane leaves soonish. I need to get to the airport in time."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you leave it so late to tell me? Were you ever going to actually tell me? Why did you come here? Why, I don't know, why?"

"Because," she spoke slowly, her eyes meeting his in a plea for understanding, "this is what I need to do. But I couldn't just go. But I couldn't tell you beforehand because I was scared that you'd talk me out of this; knew that you would; that you had the power and ability to. And I can't let you because I need this. We need this."

"How long?" he asked flatly.

"A year, at least. More if it goes well. I left your key on your kitchen table because I won't be needing it. Not for a while, at least."

"So you're just going to go? Goodbye Tristan DuGrey, hello the rest of the world?"

"I would have written and there'll be phone calls."

"Don't bother," he snapped harshly.

"Tristan, please-"

"Don't bother," he reiterated, less harshly but more firmly.

"I'm sorry," she wanted to reach out to him and yet something was stopping her.

"I'm in love with you. I am, Rory. I've been in love with you at so many various points in my life. The first, real time was at the park during college. The last time was this morning, when I woke knowing that someone was watching me sleep; knowing that that someone was you." He paused and made his request as he stared out at the city bathed in the white light of morning. "Stay."

She stood still, not saying a word, and for a brief moment hope lurched up in his chest but then she spoke, "I can't."

"Then go." There was a ring of finality in his voice and choices were being made - voluntarily and involuntarily. 

Tristan closed his eyes and let his head hit the soft firmness of his pillow; he couldn't see her walk away and he didn't. Instead - eyes shut and with the ability to see only darkness, though he could feel the morning light surrounding him and warming him - he heard her footsteps and later the gentle click of his door as it closed. It was Sunday morning, and a week had passed. It was the end and the beginning.

He got out of bed and headed out to the balcony. The smell of the city in the morning - a little damp from the street cleaners, a little old from the remains of yesterday, and a little new with the smell of food vendors, diners and restaurants preparing for their early-bird crowd - assaulted him. A haze of morning mist, smoke and pollution settled over the streets and he thought he could see the shade of her form. It was on the tip of his tongue to yell out her name, but the next-door neighbors interrupted.

"Leave!" the woman yelled. "I hate you!"

"I'm going! And good riddance!" the man screamed back.

The smashing of glass could be heard and then more yelling and more glass. Down below, the haze had temporarily lifted and the streets were empty. He headed back to bed and back to sleep with the echoing cries of his neighbors and his own mantra. _No regrets, no regrets, no regrets_. Another Sunday. 


	2. Exodus

****

Author's Note: Please don't take what has been stated about Malaysia as completely factual. A few liberties have been taken to accommodate the timeline although I have tried to retain as much accuracy as possible. 

****

Chronicling Babylon

****

2. Exodus

He wore a sarong, which in one place, one society, one time might have been an affront to his manhood but not here. Here was very different from what he had always known. And perhaps that was the appeal. Tristan had no past here. There was nothing to connect him to this land - unfamiliar, alien. He was a twentieth-first century colonist following the original dream of a new beginning; a new start; a new hope, because the world he had lived in held no hope for him. 

One Sunday after Rory had left, he had boarded his own plane and from there had roamed the world with a backpack, a camera, a journal, his passport, and a wallet filled with credit cards. Not quite the minimalist living but he was on his own and he survived vastly through his own enterprise and ingenuity. He became a free agent the day he stepped on that plane to London. Tristan became an investor, a consultant, a dealer and a go-between; using the connections he had and the connections he made to provide a more than adequate living. The apron strings had been cut. Although there was an unspoken stipulation and agreement between his parents and Tristan, that regardless of his current deviant ways, he still had a responsibility to the family. His parents had invested too much time, too much money on Tristan being the future of the DuGrey empire. And so there were check-ups and obligatory drop-ins to meet friends, acquaintances and business partners of his parents. But he could live with them because he supposed he owed them that much, and ultimately Tristan had been granted his freedom.

After one year of traveling, he had decided to settle in Malaysia and for two years now this was where he existed. Malaysia: made up of two noncontiguous parts - east and west - with the South China Sea planted bang smack in between, and surrounded by neighbors such as Indonesia, Thailand and Singapore. It bordered the equator and was hot and humid with seasonal rains influenced by winds called monsoons. This was a world that knew no cold. And he learnt to love the heat. The sun shining, always shining, down upon you; your lips and tongue burning, and your eyes watering from the fiery flavor of the national cuisine; there was beauty in it all. 

The capital city was Kuala Lumpur (KL) - an urban sprawl midst the tropical mangrove forests that spanned three-quarters of the country. It was modern and cosmopolitan and held the Petronas Towers, which at one thousand, four hundred and sixty-three feet had, at one point in time, been the world's tallest buildings. Still ancient culture coexisted with metropolitan progression here in Kuala Lumpur, and there was something admirable in that too. With a population of almost two million encompassing Malays, Chinese, and Indians and as the entry point for visitors, KL was a city of multiplicity, layers, cultures and hybrids. It was also, naturally, the city in which Tristan decided to reside in.

He learnt the national language - Bahasa Melayu - although it had taken him awhile to grasp the rudiments. Initially he was like a child, knowing and understanding and learning the most important, quintessential words. _Tandas_ for toilet. _Makan_ for eat. The numbers - _satu_, _dua_, _tiga_ - one, two and three. Now the words flowed from his tongue, sometimes quite eloquent, and he spoke with ease because it was foreign; he was allowed mistakes; he wasn't judged so harshly; and there was freedom too in not speaking your own language. He had discovered the ability to express things he had previously not known how to say, or even, did not know he had wanted to say. Of course now that he had the means, he no longer had the inclination. It was all part of the _c'est la vie_ rhetoric he had adopted along with his old mantra of _no regrets_. Although, admittedly, it had taken him awhile - months of convincing himself - until he finally believed, whole-heartedly, that there were no regrets. Tristan was content. He could live like this, a discovery that had been unexpected but welcomed. 

The sarong hung low on his hips and he paused to readjust it, stopping in front of a window. Light streamed in from the window, filling the room with a brightness that heightened color. It lit up the room, lit him up; lit up his hair so each strand was a highlight of pure gold; lit up his skin so it glowed in an even shade of tan; lit up his eyes so that were more blue, more alive. 

"Don't move!"

"Huh?" Pulling his concentration away from his sarong, Tristan looked up at the speaker: Malaysian Chinese, female, typically small - just reaching five foot one - and waif-slender like the majority of women in Asia.

"You moved, even after I told you not to," she chided.

"I'm sorry, Li Chang." He attempted to look contrite but failed.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. "No, you're not, Mr. Tristan DuGrey, although I accept your apology, which I deserve. Because I was enjoying the image of you standing by the window surrounded by a halo of light. It was very pretty."

"And I'm here to look pretty for you?"

"Yes." She added a nod for affirmation, stepping closer so her hands could play with his hair. "Pretty body. Pretty face. Pretty lips. Pretty hair. You're a pretty boy, Mr. DuGrey. And I'll add that you look even prettier today, in that sarong of yours."

"Well, I aim to please." He leaned in, invading her personal space, to brush his lips against the side of her cheek.

"You please very well." Her dainty hands played with his sarong until it fell away, dropping noiselessly to the ground.

*****

__

"Are you going to tell me why we're here?" Rory begged.

"No, because it's a secret," he stubbornly refused her.

"That is so not nice, Tristan. I don't like you. You're mean."

"Well, that's fine with me."

"Hmph." She crossed her arms and pouted before deciding to try again. "Will you give me a hint instead? Are we going somewhere fun? Will I like it?"

"Wait and see."

"That was a terrible hint. In fact, that was no hint at all."

"I know," Tristan smirked. She continued to pout and finally he couldn't take anymore of it. "Okay, I'm taking you to a B&B. A nice floral B&B with lots of fun activities and arts and crafts."

"You wouldn't dare!" A chuckle was his only reply, and Rory's eyes grew wide at the sound. "You would! That is cruel. Beyond cruel. Beyond evil." 

"Okay, so we're not going to a B&B."

"Then where are we going?"

"Has anybody told you that whining is unbecoming, Gilmore?"

"I'm not whining!"

"You are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not. And just tell me where we're going, DuGrey!" 

"Nope, sorry. These lips are sealed."

"Arrggh! I'm this close to smacking you," Rory threatened.

"Hey now! No resorting to violence. What happened to being a pacifist?"

"Me? A pacifist? I'm sorry but you must have the wrong Lorelai Leigh Gilmore."

"No, I think I have the right one." His eyes smiled at her with sincerity and untold things. She smiled back and it would have been a moment, but an overtaking car diverted their attention.

Rory took advantage of the distraction to ask once more, "So, where are we going again?"

"Virginia," Tristan replied before realizing what he had said.

"We're going to Virginia?"

"Did I say that?"

"Yes, you did. We're going to Virginia!" she bounced excitedly in her seat. She paused mid-way through a bounce to ask, "Why are we going to Virginia? What's in Virginia? Where are we going in Virginia?"

"Can't you just sit back and enjoy the ride? Can't you be happy not knowing?" Tristan shot back.

"Nope and nope. I want to know. I need to know. Du-u-uGre-e-ey-"

"You're doing that whining thing again," he pointed out.

"And, I'm not going to stop until you tell me all I want to know."

"Grief, woman. Here I am trying to do you a good turn…all I thought was that we had the weekend free, and college seemed to be really getting to the both of us…"

"I appreciate it and you. Really I do," Rory interjected. "But I would appreciate you more if you would just tell me when, why, where and how."

"You know the when, you know the how and you know part of the where. Three out of four is good odds."

"You're doing the not nice thing again, Tristan. And you're being mean and unfair."

He shrugged nonchalantly as he continued to drive, "Life is unfair." 

"Smart-ass."

"Well, my ass has been attributed with many qualities but I think this is the first time someone has called it smart."

"There are times, DuGrey, when I'm under the impression that you've changed since our Chilton days and then you say something like that and it makes me realize you're still the same."

"Why change when I'm already perfect?"

"Delusional boy. And stop trying to detract me from my search for the truth."

"Search for the truth? That's a bit grandiose."

"You're hiding things from me! And I don't like it. I'm warning you, Tristan, I have ways of finding things out. Don't make me resort to them!"

"Really?" he chuckled in disbelief, "I'd like to see that."

Defeated, Rory leaned back in her seat and insolently kicked the door. She glared at the passing scenery and the car was silent. Tristan continued to drive, smug in the knowledge that he had bested Rory. She shifted in her seat, deciding it was better to glare at him. She shot daggers at his head, his chest, his thigh…and then she stopped and smiled to herself. Ever so casually, Rory placed her hand on Tristan's knee and slowly, lightly, began to make a trail up his thigh.

"Uh, um, Rory?" Tristan croaked. 

"Yes?" she asked innocently, even as her fingers crept higher and higher.

"W-what are you, um, d-doing?" 

"Nothing. Just thinking." Her hand accidentally strayed - wayward - so it brushed against his inner thigh.

"Could you, um, stop it?"

"Stop what? Stop thinking?"

"No! That. That thing with your hand!" His voice was reaching the higher pitches, not customary for males.

"What thing with my hand?" Another brush, this time lingering.

"I-I-" Incapable of words, he pulled his right hand away from the steering wheel in an attempt to stop her.

"Hey! Both hands on the steering wheel, mister." Rory scolded as she put his hand back on the wheel, before continuing her ministrations. 

Several times he shifted, uncomfortably, around in his seat but it was useless. He continued to drive, helpless to her straying hand. And finally, after almost a minute had passed, Tristan could take it no longer. In desperation, he swerved the car onto the side-road, turned the engine off and glared at Rory.

"You, Ms. Gilmore, will stop that unless you're willing to face the consequences!"

She gulped nervously, "The, uh, consequences?"

"Yes, the consequences." He leaned in so that their faces were only inches apart; so she could see the intensity and sincerity of his words. She licked her lips, nervously, and for one brief millisecond they both thought that he might kiss her. But he pulled back abruptly and started the engine, although he added as a last reminder, "The consequences, Ms. Gilmore. Remember them."

*****

He woke to a naked back and long black hair splayed across his pillow and over his arm. Carefully he extracted himself out of the bed, trying not to disturb the sleeping Li Chang. She looked at peace now, for he had been well aware of the shadows that clouded her face, the torment in her eyes. He wondered what had brought her to his bed today, though it was not in him to ask her directly. It would become one of those things, never stated, between them.

Li Chang was his sometimes lover, but not his friend. Tristan had no friends, only acquaintances and companions. She was a companion who had become a lover because they shared an understanding that others did not - could not - comprehend. They were living in times of war; not of guns and machines, military and other armed forces but something more internalized. It was a battle against a faceless enemy and there would be no glory, no heroic, triumphant tales akin to the _Iliad_. It was random, desperate shooting out into the murky cloud of reality and your vision was always impaired by you. They both had scars - he and Li Chang - though no one could tell from the perfectly smooth skin of their bodies. But the scars existed as did the wounds that festered. And so they clung onto one another, sharing and taking comfort when they could; when they needed it most. She carried a key to his house as he carried hers, and it was enough that they had each other, for the moment.

Still, he wondered how long they must continue to man the front, always on guard. Always. They were world weary and fatigued. He was tired of holding up arms, fending off the faceless. She was tired too, and horrified. Tristan remembered kissing away her tears as he entered her; how she had felt warm and yet cold, so very cold.

He had a meeting soon and would have to leave but he was reluctant to wake her. Instead Tristan showered and changed and when he returned to his bedroom found Li Chang still sleeping. After a moment of debate, he scribbled her a note, kissed her forehead and stroked her hair and left. One of them deserved a reprieve and today she obviously needed it more.

*****

The night was balmy and cars flocked to a lengthy block of extended concrete where numerous hawker stalls were set up. He could smell food, overpowering and enticing; it was spices sizzling through the air and assaulting his senses. Tristan clambered up the stairs and perused the open-aired platform trying to decide what he was hungry for. There was the nutty entreats of satay being grilled; there was chicken rice, rice with roast duck, rice with BBQ pork, rice with virtually anything you desired; there were the variety of noodles from Singapore to Hokkien; and there was curry, rendang, nasi lemak, which were all guaranteed to burn your tongue and leave you gasping for water. Having circled the stalls three times, Tristan finally settled on a bowl of curry laksa and paid his dues to a worn, middle-aged woman who had already seen too many customers tonight, so that she only cared that the right amount of money exchanged hands.

After this, it was the struggle to find a spare seat amongst the rows and columns of people and white, plastic tables and seats. He battled with the people, always battling, and they became one with the faceless enemy that had no name. His meeting had gone well but rather than celebrating in some fancy restaurant in KL, Tristan had opted to drive to Petaling Jaya to eat some of the local cuisine. The food was better, tastier, here than in some fancy restaurant. Although the first few times he had sampled the local cooking, Tristan had been unable to stomach it and consequently fell fate to food poisoning. Now he could eat with relish, secure in the knowledge that his stomach was iron steel. 

After dinner, Tristan was planning on going to the _Pasar Malam_ - a street market that operated during the night and rotated throughout the suburbs, attracting the general populace and tourists alike. It was just across the street from the hawker stalls, and he looked forward to sifting through the goods for sale. There would be more food (mostly of the dessert and fresh fruit variety), local pottery and arts and craft, clothing and cheap imitation wares. 

By sheer luck, a space opened as a family of four departed and Tristan clamored, as others did, for the seats. He claimed one and proceeded to eat, not paying attention to his neighbors. The laksa was delicious; a nice blend of curry and milky coconut. Using his chopsticks, the proper way, Tristan fed himself the noodles and enjoyed the sting to his palate and the encompassing heat that filled his body as he swallowed.

"Tristan?" 

He choked at the sound of the voice, _her_ voice, and coughed and coughed, clutching his throat as he grasped for his cup of ice water. The water quenched the heat but not the feelings of trepidation. Reluctantly he looked up and across the table.

"Rory."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Oh. Good. Because that coughing thing…"

"The laksa was just a little bit hotter than I expected," he lied.

"Oh, well, yeah. I'm surprised you're even eating it because you never could eat hot. The slightest bit of chili would have you crying like a baby and diving for water or in one case ice cubes and then there was that other time when-"

"Rory," he interrupted.

"What?"

"You're babbling."

"Oh, thanks for stopping me." They lapsed into silence and she seemed to be searching for something to say, to fill in the gaps, but Tristan made no effort to help her. Finally, she gave up some of the pretense and simply said, "You look good. It's been awhile."

"You look good too. And it's been three years." He picked up his chopsticks and recommenced the eating process although his appetite had considerably diminished.

"Three years…" she mused, half to herself and half to him. "It doesn't seem that long but it's been ages."

"A lifetime."

"And it's funny because out of all the-"

"This isn't _Casablanca_," Tristan stated flatly, anticipating what Rory had been about to say. "We were never _Casablanca_."

"I'm not…never mind."

"Good."

"Good? How can this be good? You just left."

"_I_ just left? Like you can speak, Gilmore. Is it still Gilmore? Not that it matters."

"I wrote you and never got a reply. I called and always got the answering machine. And one month later, I was informed that Tristan DuGrey no longer lived at this address. He'd moved and no one knew where. And if your parents knew they weren't saying. Oh, and it is still Gilmore."

"Huh, who knew my parents were good for something. And my condolences about still being Gilmore. I figured that by now you and Mr. He's No One Important would be happily married and with two point three kids. Is it two point three? My general knowledge is bad like that."

"Let's not do this."

"Do what?" he faked ignorance.

"This…this whatever. Let's not do this. It's beneath us."

"Is it? Are you absolutely sure? Maybe it's just beneath you; maybe I'm just beneath you."

"Tristan, you know you're not. Things are just awkward…different," Rory observed.

"Well," Tristan grinned sardonically, "time does that."

"What are you doing in Malaysia, Tristan?"

"What are _you_ doing in Malaysia?" he reiterated.

"I'm on assignment."

"I live here."

"You live here, wow. I never expected that."

"Neither did I, but life throws you the unexpected now and then. And Malaysia's not a bad place. I like the climate. It'll probably suit me in my old age when the cold threatens to overwhelm."

She nodded, not really listening to what he was saying but more intent on the sound of his voice. With the tip of her spoon, she moved the rice across the plate, gathering the courage to confess, "I missed you."

"Did you? I missed you too. For awhile. And then I stopped." He said it; too casual, matter-a-fact.

"You never used to be deliberately hurtful."

"The thought of you and our so-called friendship never used to hurt. But I got over it. I made sure. I'm immune to you now, Rory Gilmore."

"I'm not. I was in love with you too, but it wouldn't have worked. Not then."

"So she says three years after. You know what, let's not do this. Let's just eat."

She opened her mouth to object but realizing the futility, Rory picked up her spoon and fork and quietly began eating her rice instead. The din of the crowd was all encompassing - noises everywhere - but it was not enough to hide the emptiness that stretched between them. He ate quickly, intent on his food and refusing to look at her though he was too conscious of her presence. Tristan was not as immune as he would have liked to have been but he could pretend. She made no such attempt and her eyes were upon him, watching and waiting. 

"Could you stop that?" he finally grumbled in exasperation, uncomfortable with her scrutiny.

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me."

"There's no law against looking. Besides you're sitting right in front of me, it would be kind of hard for me not to look at you."

"Fine, whatever. I'm leaving."

"You're just going to get up and go?"

"I have finished my meal, Rory. And there are people waiting for a seat."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"What do you want from me? It was nice bumping into you? It's been great and we must do it again some other time? See, I'm a little rusty on the social protocols and etiquette that this situation requires so you're going to have to tell me what you're expecting."

"I expected more. I don't know. I just hoped-"

It was the last thing he wanted to hear - _her_ hopes. Abruptly, brusquely, he pushed himself off the chair and left. He found himself stumbling into the crowd and allowed himself to be swept away, following the stream of people which led him to the _Pasar Malam_ stalls. And then he stopped as the crowd pushed past him, glaring and impatient, but he did not notice; he could barely breathe. 

The owners of the stalls took it upon themselves to deign him a potential buyer. They shoved imitation Gucci watches in front of his face, dangled faux Calvin Klein and took his silence as bargaining. They lowered the prices, offered little extras and would not leave him alone. Blindly, without care, he shoved some cash into their hands and accepted their goods, and then they left him alone still struggling for air.

His lungs pushed his ribs outwards, the outer-costal muscles not used; the absence of chest expansion which led to cavicular breathing. Strained and lacking. He tried to retain control: inhale and exhale evenly. From his childhood Tristan remembered the breathing exercises his Speech teacher had made him practice. It came back with amazing clarity and necessity: _"Stand easily with your hands resting on lower ribs. That's right, Mr. DuGrey. Breathe deeply, without force. In and out through your mouth. Yes, yes, feeling your ribs move outwards as you breathe. Relax. Relax."_

"Tristan." He swung around and there she was, standing away from the throng, and he couldn't breathe again.

"Rory," he managed.

"Tristan."

"W-what do you want?"

She hesitated, biting her lip. "A second chance."

He shook his head vehemently, "I don't know if I can."

"Please."

"R-rory." Was that his voice breaking? He wasn't sure, he couldn't tell. The air was stifling, the people overwhelming - too many people - and the heat scorching, and he'd forgotten how to breathe.

"I-I have my card," she fumbled with her purse before pulling out a standard, white business card. "I'll be in Malaysia for six months. Just, please, think about calling me sometime. Please."

Her arm was extended, her hand holding the proffered card and he slowly, hesitantly, reached out to take it. His trembling fingers brushed against hers - familiar and yet unfamiliar touch. He pulled back, the card in the palm of his hand.

"Thank you," she whispered, a wavering smile on her face, before she turned and immersed herself back into the sea of faceless people.

*****

The key was being stubborn and wouldn't fit into the lock. He fumbled a little and it fell from his grasp and a steady stream of curses flowed from Tristan's mouth. There was little attempt to be quiet although it was nearing two in the morning and when the door finally opened, he shut it with a bang. Then he stumbled through the darkness - tripping and falling and muttering oaths and curses - until he finally reached the bedroom. She was awake; the lamp by her bedside table on; a steady, dull glow of light in the darkness. 

"I woke you," he apologized.

"You really should stop apologizing when you don't mean it," Li Chang stated simply. "Because one day you'll apologize and I won't know that you were sincere."

"The boy who cried wolf."

"You've been drinking, Tristan."

"You can smell the alcohol from here?" he marveled.

"I know the signs."

"I'm that predictable?"

"No," she shook her head, "I know because you are a mirror reflection of me."

"Actually, I'd say that you're that much prettier."

"Thank you, Tristan." She smiled ever so slightly and then stated with knowledge, "You saw her today."

"Saw who?"

"Saw the girl who broke you."

"How can you be so sure that I'm like this because of some girl," he questioned, playing the devil's advocate because he was feeling disgruntled and difficult.

"Because it is true," Li Chang replied, unperturbed. "So, do you feel like talking?"

"We sat on the same table during dinner. Right opposite one another like a sad, twist of fate."

"It did not go well."

He laughed once, bitter. "Define well. It's been three years. Three fucking years. Three years, Li Chang."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I've got you beat, Tristan. Try six years."

"Really? Six years? And here I was hoping that given time-"

"I do not think a lifetime will make any difference," she declared.

"More fools are we."

"We are not fools, at least I do not like to think so."

"Maybe just tragic players in a comedy?"

"Perhaps, although that isn't really any better."

"No, it isn't." He could feel the card nestled in the bottom of his jacket. "Her name was Rory. Actually Lorelai but she went by Rory. We went to high school together for a year. I had this crush on her then and she never knew. We met again in college and became best friends but nothing more. Never anything more. And one day, one Sunday, after graduating from college and living life on the career fast track, she ups and informs me that she's leaving. God, that sounds so pathetic. I'm decided, my life _is_ a comedy." This time he chuckled - lovely, lovely self-derision. And then, curiosity overcoming him, he asked, "What happened to you today, Li Chang?"

Her smile was sad and her eyes seemed to see into some distant past and future. "Tonight isn't about me, Tristan. Tonight is about you."

He shrugged, letting her evasion go; not wanting to press the issue any further. After all, under normal circumstances Tristan would have never asked, but he was drunk and tonight was by far from normal. Besides, he wasn't sure if he had the energy and the strength to handle her problems tonight. It was probably a little bit selfish but it was also self-preservation. Still, he needed to say, needed her to know that he did care. "I'm always here to listen or whatever if you need me. You know that right?"

"I know, Tristan."

"I'm tired, Li Chang. So tired. I-I-" He gave up on speech then and instead crossed the distance between them in two determined strides and grabbed hold of her shoulders and kissed her. 

Kissed her as an outlet for everything he was feeling. Kissed her to gain semblance and control. Kissed her because he could and because she was letting him. He kissed her because her eyes weren't startling blue; because her hair was raven black instead of a rich brown; because her skin was a darker shade of gold rather than the pale, milky white he had grown accustomed to. Had grown to love.

*****

It was the smell of Chinese tea that woke him. Not really strong, but subtle and with a distinctive aroma. Enough to make Tristan sit up in bed. He had learnt to love Chinese tea since his arrival to Malaysia. It had become his morning necessity instead of coffee.

"Good, you're awake." Li Chang observed. "I thought you were going to sleep the whole day away. You sleep like the dead, Tristan, only you also snore. Loudly."

"I'm not quite sure if I believe you, about the snoring. You're the first person to complain and I'm inclined to think that you're making it up."

"Perhaps everyone was too polite to tell you to your face."

"And here I thought Chinese women were renowned for their politeness and their mild manner."

"That is a myth. Besides, I would think that politeness is beyond us by now."

"You're right, Li Chang. Although, would it be improper for me to express my admiration at your ability to pour tea?"

"It is an art; one that I never learnt. You are a great flatterer and liar, Tristan DuGrey." He smiled unabashedly at her as he took a sip of the tea. "By the way, this fell out of your jacket when I went to hang it up." She handed him Rory's business card, knowing its significance.

"You could have thrown it in the bin." She merely looked at him and Tristan sighed. "Tell me what to do, Li Chang. Tell me if I should call her."

"Do you not think it is a little inappropriate to ask your lover whether or not you should call the woman you've been in love with?"

"So I shouldn't call her?"

"It is your decision, Tristan. I cannot make it for you."

"I wish you would." He made a little puppy-dog face, hoping that she would reconsider.

She smiled but shook her head, merely stating, "Drink your tea." 

He did as Li Chang commanded, letting the brewed water and tea leaves warm him as he traced the letters on the card. Lorelai Leigh Gilmore. And the telephone number – lots of eights and lots of fours in equal proportions. If he was Chinese and superstitious, Tristan wondered what he would have made of it. Good or bad luck? 

*****

Each day he picked up the phone and dialed the number to her cell phone; he had it engraved in his memory by now. Every single time he hung up before she could answer. It had almost become a ritual; the third ring was where he'd lose nerve and slam the handset back onto the receiver. There was something he was lacking, the courage maybe, to talk her. To be friends again. 

And he was becoming more and more aware of the passage of time. Initially it had been a day and then two, later a week and then more weeks, but now it was months. He was running out of time and just like the superstitious value of Rory's phone number, he couldn't decide if it was a good or bad thing. 

There were theories on predestination and making your own fate that ran through his mind every time he picked up the phone and hung up. There were bohemian truths about love conquering all, and old schoolboy ideals about friendships making a man. There were constant internal and external debates, all conducted and argued by him. And finally there was the dial tone that mocked his failure; an echoing click that resounded through the sounds of normal, ordinary life. He heard it every day when he failed to complete the call. Worse yet, he heard it in the tone of people's voices – a dull finality; the noise of a tongue meeting the upper palate of a mouth. It was discovered in the shutting of a door; rhythmic in the footsteps of a crowd; cars, trains and buses sung a chorus of these clicks; and he could not escape it. He could not block out the sound, even with mufflers and earphones because it was there, too, in the recesses of his head, ready and waiting to taunt him.

Today, the calendar marked the passing of four months. Two more months left. Tristan wondered if today would be any different; he doubted it. Sure enough, his hands were itching to end the call just after he had finished pushing the numbers to her cell. The first ring came and went, his hand inched a little closer to the receiver. The second ring sounded and he pulled his hand back, thinking that maybe this time would be different. Or maybe not. His test would be the third ring and he sat and waited for it.

"Hello? Lorelai Gilmore speaking."

Tristan froze, only conscious that his third ring had never come.

"Hello? Is there anyone there? Hello?"

"Sorry, wron-"

"Tristan? Is that you?"

"Um, yeah." There could be no hanging up now.

"You called." She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and gratitude, and he found himself breathing with her, somehow, strangely, a little in sync with her emotions.

"Yeah, I did."

"I didn't think you were ever going to call. After the first month…I hoped but…"

Perhaps it was something in her voice or maybe it was something - some need - within him to tell her all. "I did, y'know. Call that is. Every day for four months I picked up my phone and dialed your number."

"I never got any of your calls or a message." It wasn't quite an accusation nor was it a simple statement of the facts.

He could read in between the lines, knew what she was trying to say and he found himself nodding, though she couldn't see him, and saying, "Yeah. I know. I always hung up."

There was a quick intake of breath from her side of the phone followed by an un-interpretable silence. Then, as if she felt she didn't have the right, she tentatively asked, "If…if I hadn't picked up just now, would you have hung up?"

"I don't know, Rory." He wasn't quite sure of the answer himself. "Maybe. Probably. Most likely."

"Oh," she sounded disappointed and resigned, wanting more but not really expecting more. 

Inspite of himself Tristan felt the need to reassure her, "That doesn't mean I didn't want to call you, and talk to you. I did. I do. It's just that…the thing is, Rory, I'm not sure if we can just go back. I don't think we can just pick up the phone and talk and be friends again. And at the same time I want it so much, so badly. I miss our friendship. I miss us. But I'm scared. Scared that everything we had is gone, that too much time has passed and we'll find ourselves unable to be friends. Worse yet, I'm scared that the reverse is true, that nothing has changed. That three years hasn't altered anything."

"I'm scared too, Tristan. I know I messed up," she apologized, as if she could not apologize enough.

"No," he disagreed; finally acknowledging what he - in anger and bitterness - had long ignored, "it wasn't just your fault. I messed up just as much, in my own way. There were things I could have done, things I could have said but I didn't. And then you made a decision, and it was easier to pinpoint and place the blame on that one decision. But really, it was an accumulation of things. And those things - we were both to blame."

"You're being entirely too nice, DuGrey."

He smiled at the endearment; it had been a long time since he'd heard his surname spoken in that same soft but clear voice. "You should know better, Gilmore. I was never known for my niceties. There was always some ulterior motive."

"That's not true. You had your charitable, non-evil moments. Rare and far between but still existent."

"Ah but they were only to impress you, hence an ulterior motive." She laughed and his smile broadened at the sound. "You or some girl that took my fancy."

"Always the player."

"Yeah, always." The light-hearted banter between them began to take on extra meaning; it encapsulated the friendship they once had and they suddenly grew somber again.

"I can't change anything, Tristan. I'm not even sure if I want to. Those three years, they were hard and difficult but I also learnt a lot. And grew. And what I said to you, that Sunday, still holds true. We needed the space because we were going nowhere. We'd found ourselves in this cycle or rut of something more and something less. And I couldn't live like that, not anymore. And even if we were in love with one another, everything was wrong - the reasons, the timing. We would have ruined everything. So, I'm not sure if I would have changed how it was all played out. But regardless of all that, I do know that three years without your friendship was something I never wanted. Something I still don't want. I don't want to imagine another three years or more without you in my life. So I'm asking you, please-?"

He took a deep breath. His mind was full with everything - choices, decisions, possible futures, memories, emotions - but one thing stood out above all: her. "Okay."

"What?"

"Okay," he reiterated.

"Okay? Really, okay?"

"Yeah. Really, okay." Tristan confirmed.

"Oh, wow. Okay…" she sounded like she was in shock. "Are you sure?"

"Would you like me to change my mind?" he couldn't resist teasing.

"No! I just-wow. Okay. O-k-a-y. Okay."

"Okay." He felt, not happier, but less burdened. It was a nice feeling. Something he could get used to, not to mention the thought of Rory Gilmore back in his life.

"Thank you, Tristan."

"Don't thank me yet," he forewarned but he still couldn't help the feeling of hope. It was foreign and alien and almost wrong, but it was there.


	3. Leviticus

****

Author's Notes: Much thanks to all those who provided feedback. And for the people who egged for more or smacked and bribed me for more or simply were tolerant and supportive of my wayward self. You know who you are. Sorry, that this was long in coming, and unfortunately no promises that the next update will be any faster.

Back to R, because after some thinking it's really more of R than NC-17 and I'm not likely to get any more explicit than this.

Chronicling Babylon

3. Leviticus

"You have a tea addiction," she commented lightly.

"Yeah. I suppose it's something that I picked up, living here."

"Well, I'm still coffee obsessed." She gestured at her cup with a flourish and grinned but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

He smiled back, polite. It was always polite, nothing beyond the surface of superficial. They had friendship, lack luster and pale in comparison to what it had once been but it was friendship nonetheless. They met everyday, since Rory's phone call, and spent an hour drinking coffee and tea and talking about nothing except the mundane ongoings of their lives. The past was almost never broached and only then (always by her) tentatively and with caution.

Part of him wished it was easier, that they could slip back into the comfort of what they had once been. He knew that Rory felt the same. However, another part of Tristan, a larger part, was relieved (even happy) that they could not. The old saying went, "Once bitten, twice shy." He was twice shy and it wasn't really a bad thing to be.

"I still take my coffee the same way," Rory added, a little lamely.

"I've noticed."

"So I hear that Louise Grant is onto her fourth husband. I think she's trying to rival Elizabeth Taylor and I think it's why she keeps her maiden name. Less name changes. Oh and Paris just got engaged…to Brad of all people! Do you remember how terrified he used to be of her? Good grief, I wonder how their marriage is going to work."

"You still keep up with the Chilton alumna gossip? "

"Of course. Remember how amusing…" Rory's voice trailed off when she noticed a grimace, a hint of disgust, on his face. "Tristan? What's wrong? We used to do it all the time, remember?"

"Yeah, but maybe I've _matured_ since then," he said bitingly. The confused and wounded look that settled on her face made him feel a little guilty for snapping at her. "Look, I don't meant to be harsh or whatever. I guess laughing at how people's lives have turned out has lost its appeal. I mean, I wouldn't like it if other people were doing that to me. So, Paris and Brad and found love in the most unexpected place. We should be happy for them. As for Louise, at least she has the foresight to get out of an unhappy relationship. It's better than continuing to live with a person you're slowly coming to despise."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be cruel."

"No, don't apologize. I'm not the one you should be saying sorry to. For anything."

"Tristan…"

"I've got to go." He stood up abruptly, dumping some cash on the table and walked out of the café without looking back. Outside was humid and the streets were busy. An ordinary day for everyone else. Tristan let out his breath and wished he wasn't so hung up with everything concerning Rory Gilmore. He had honestly thought that things were getting better. He had hoped that their tepid friendship meant progression: a chance to move on, a chance to let go. But it seemed like part of him was still clinging on tightly to the past and all the significant and insignificant wrongs that they had inflicted upon each other, from the day he had called her Mary to the Sunday when she had left. Not for the first time in his life Tristan wished that he had never met her. 

Tomorrow, however, was another day. They would meet again, he knew they would, and begin the routine of pointless conversation until she inadvertently pushed him too far and he would snap and leave. 

*****

"So what do you think?" she asked him eagerly.

"It's good. Of course, you know that."

"Yeah, but I wanted to hear you say it. Your opinion means a lot to me, Tristan."

"I'm just stating the truth. Your writing has always been nothing short of amazing, Rory. This article is no exception."

"So enough about me, tell me about your day."

"Horrible. Absolutely horrible."

"Aww…poor baby. Tell me all, it'll make you feel better."

The banter was not lost, could not be lost. The banter had seen them through all variances of their relationship; it was reliable and their one stability. Sometimes as they exchanged repartees, Tristan and Rory pretended that they were still the best of friends. For a few minutes the illusion would take hold and then they were almost happy.

"The world is filled with pompous jackasses that I have no tolerance for," he whined.

"Because there can only be one pompous jackass, and that position has already been filled by you?"

"Exactly. Hey! You just insulted me."

"And it's good to see that you're still so quick on the uptake."

"You're meant to be lending a sympathetic ear to my tale of woe, not taking potshots!"

"But you make it too easy for me, Tristan."

"Whatever. I think I need a cigarette."

Rory laughed, "You don't smoke, remember?" 

"Actually I do. Not so often now but occasionally you get cravings." He was serious now and surprise colored her face.

"Wow, that's new. And a bit sudden."

"It's been three years, Rory."

"Yeah, but what happened to the guy I knew who used to be so adamantly against smoking?"

"Things change." 

"Yes, but it's bad for you. Cigarettes can kill. Lung cancer, throat cancer, need I go on? When did you start smoking? And more importantly why? They can kill you!"

"You've already mentioned that. Besides, a lot of things in this world can kill you and we're all going to die anyway. It's just a matter of time and how. Smoking is just a habit I picked up. No big deal." His voice was becoming dangerously flat but she seemed relentless in her questioning of this so-called new development. It was like she was deliberately crossing the unspoken rules of their daily meetings. Her innocent insistence was beyond infuriating. Anger welled up inside of him, unbidden.

"It's just seems so incongruous with-"

"With the Tristan you once knew?"

"Yeah."

"Like I said, I'm not that person anymore. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see if I can bum a stick off the girls over there." He got up and headed outside to the two Asian girls, probably only twenty or so, who were puffing furiously on their cigarettes. He chatted amicably, flirting a little even, and soon the three of them were standing on the street blowing rings of smoke into the faces of passers-by. Tristan took extra satisfaction, knowing that a disapproving Rory was watching. Casually, he flicked some ash onto the concrete pavement and turned his head sideways so that he could catch Rory's eye. There was something of hurt and rebuke mixed into the blue of her eyes and that made him grin maliciously. He thanked the girls for their generosity before dropping the lit cigarette butt and crushing it with his foot. Then he walked away from her, from Rory, knowing that he had made his point clear: he was not the Tristan she once knew.

*****

"There's this thing with people that was highly recommended by a friend I know. It's meant to be really good. Although, you kinda have to dress up, well, apparently it's black tie. And it involves looking at things, pretty things."

"That sounds nice."

"Yes, yes it does sound nice doesn't it?" her eyes seemed to sparkle with eagerness and hope.

"Very nice."

"It would be extra nice to go. And I was thinking I would go, to look at the pretty things. Well, not to say that it's only pretty. I hear it's also confronting and challenging and intellectually stimulating. And some of the things might not be so pretty. But I, uh, can't guarantee that."

"Sounds like your sort of thing," he commented absently.

"Yeah. I thought I might go. And when I heard about it, I thought you might like it. That it might be your sort of thing." Her eyes were cerulean or azure or one of those sunny, clear skies blue. They were shiny with optimism. 

"When is it?"

"This Friday night. I was hoping that maybe we could-"

Lately, Rory seemed intent on pushing the boundaries of their friendship. It annoyed him. She should have been satisfied with what they were, and what they weren't. There were rules and she was breaking them. He wished that she would stop wanting more. He thought he might hate her for wanting more. They had their daily hour of coffee and tea; there could be nothing else, no things. 

"I'm busy," he interjected curtly. He wasn't lying either, he did have plans. 

"Oh, well, I just thought but I suppose it is a little late and…never mind."

"Well, maybe next time." Now that was a lie.

"Yeah, next time. So did I tell you about this joke I heard from this guy at work? It was the funniest thing."

"No."

"Okay. Well, you have this guy, let's call him Bob. Anyway one day Bob meets this…"

*****

The gallery was filled with pretentious, obnoxious types all eager to praise and criticize as deemed appropriate. Soft almost inaudible music played in the background subtly adding to the mood. Conversation milled around him like the waiters offering flutes of champagne and from the snippets that had filtered through it appeared that tonight was deemed a success. Li Chang should be pleased – the operative word being should – for he knew her too well.

Tonight was the opening of her 'East meets West' collection. It was collection filled with the binaries that made the world go round. It was a collection that was vibrant and dull, clashing and harmonious, ancient and post-modern. Deliberately and controversially like her paintings Li Chang centered a small group in a pair of worn jeans, a crimson halter and sneakers. Amidst the formally attired clique she stood out: beautiful, unique and politely bored. Tristan stood some distance away sipping the champagne and dressed equally notoriously in jeans and a sweater. He could have easily conformed to the more formal black tie that was expected but Li Chang had long ago brushed off such conventions as ostentatious. "Wear what you like. Wear what you're comfortable with. That's what I always do and I expect the same from you," she had declared and Tristan had followed her instructions accordingly. 

He glanced down at his watch knowing that in five minutes he would be called to gallantly rescue her from the hordes and sweep her away to McDonalds for a Big Mac and fries. It had become a game they played, an act, a routine of two years of gallery openings. This was how they had first met, at one of her exhibitions. A bond had been formed and together they had toed and then crossed the lines of social convention; their behavior excused because she was an artist prone to eccentricities and he was rich and a DuGrey. Tristan and Li Chang created ripples whenever and wherever they went and they enjoyed the tension they caused. 

Only three minutes had passed but the tittering of the women nearby was getting on Tristan's nerves. He knew that if he didn't head over to Li Chang now, one or both would gather up the courage to accost him. Self-preservation kicked in and not caring that he was being rude, Tristan barged through the crowd and tapped Li Chang on the shoulder, "Let's go."

"If you say so." Her eyes seemed to twinkle at his impatience to leave and his obvious annoyance with the people around them. She gave her adoring public an apologetic smile as he pulled her away. When they were an appropriate distance away from the crowd she whispered in his ear, "Okay, what was that, Tristan?" 

"What do you mean?" he asked; his hand on her back propelling her forward as they weaved their way towards the exit.

"Normally you're not so obvious."

"Normally they're not so inane."

"They're bad but I do believe that you're the one in an extra shitty mood, Tristan."

"I've lived all my life with their imbecility. Forgive me, if they're finally wearing my patience thin," he spat.

Li Chang simply raised an eyebrow, nonplused by his moodiness. "No, it's more than that. You've been on edge ever since-"

"Don't say it!" he interjected sharply. 

They both knew that his prolonged state of agitation was due to the reappearance of a certain woman in his life but he didn't want to think about her now. He didn't want to think about how tonight was Friday night, _the_ Friday night, and how he could have been out somewhere with Rory if it hadn't promised to accompany Li Chang to her opening. Tristan ignored the fact that he would have rejected Rory's invitation even if he didn't have a previous engagement. Instead, he indulged in this ridiculous, irrational resentment. It felt good; much better than concentrating on where Rory was and what she might be doing and who was with her. And then as if merely thinking about Rory could conjure up her presence in reality, she was standing before him and Li Chang blocking their exit.

"Tristan!" Rory gasped.

He didn't reply but simply took in the rosy pink slip of a dress she was wearing. The pink seemed to emphasize the hint of blush that colored the apples of her cheeks. Her partner had dark brown hair and absently Tristan thought that Rory must have a thing for brunettes. After all there had been Dean, Jeremy, that guy from her English lecture, Paul and now this man. Maybe if he had dyed his hair brown, but that was just another thing to add onto his list of maybes. 

"I'm Li Chang. And I take it you're a friend of Tristan's?" He watched dumbly as Li Chang replied in his stead, taking charge of the situation.

"Um yes. My name's Rory Gilmore. And this is my friend Jess Mariano. It's nice to meet you." The three exchanged handshakes as Rory cursorily glanced his way. Li Chang attempted to nudge him into action but Tristan refused. His sudden bout of muteness created an embarrassing tension that settled onto the group. 

"Uh, Li Chang…" Rory's partner, Jess, mused, "you wouldn't happen to be the artist, would you?"

"This is one of my exhibitions, yes." Li Chang confirmed.

"I love your work," Jess continued, "You can call me a big fan."

"Thank you. It is nice to know that other people genuinely appreciate your art."

"Yeah, Jess is a big fan. Huge fan, actually," Rory chipped in. "He's been raving about your paintings since forever. I thought I should finally come and see what all the fuss is about. Although, I'm sure it is all wonderful."

It took all of Tristan's strength of will not to gag, the exchange of pleasantries between the trio were nothing short of nauseating. He didn't want to stand here and listen to their meaningless ramble. He had better things to do like sleep or maybe slit his throat with a dull knife. 

"Li Chang, we have to go." He tapped his finger against the face of his watch. She nodded in acquiescence and opened her mouth to bid Rory and Jess farewell. Realizing her intention, Tristan rolled his eyes then grabbed Li Chang's right hand and stalked out of the gallery. 

The glass doors swung open thanks to the valets, and they were blasted with the overpowering warmth of the outside air compared to the dry coolness of the air-conditioned interior. Li Chang was not so gently slapping him on the shoulder, scolding him for his rudeness although she wasn't really upset but rather concerned. 

"Could you stop hitting me, now?"

"You were extremely rude. Where did you learn social etiquette, Mr. Tristan DuGrey, because you need to go back to school!"

"Since when did you give a damn about social protocol? When did you become the poster girl for conformity?"

"This is different."

"How?" he demanded. "We arrive at some fancy shindig in jeans for God's sake! We leave early and ignore convention. We offend people. It's what we do. It's what we've been doing for two fucking years. How is today different from any of the other times?"

"Because this is personal."

"It's always personal."

"Don't fucking paraphrase the _Godfather_ to me, Tristan. This is personal because this involves the girl. The. Girl. The one you barely acknowledged. The one who broke you and who you're now trying to break in return."

"All's fair in love and war."

"Another quote from you and you'll learn that I really did earn a black belt in martial arts. Whatever you're doing, Tristan, it isn't you."

"Y'know, I've been hearing that statement a lot these days. 'This isn't you, Tristan.' Like everyone else in this fucking world knows exactly who Tristan DuGrey is except me. Well, maybe none of you never really knew the real Tristan DuGrey. Did you ever think of that, huh?" He paused, mid-rant, to take a breath before he continued. "Shit, Li Chang, let me ask you this…what would you do if _he_ came back? If he came back and wanted to be friends. And every day you see him for an hour and you have no fuckin' clue what you're doing. And you think you should stop seeing him 'cos you can't help hurting him in everything you do and everything you say. And he's there, all needy and wanting forgiveness and friendship and everything else you're incapable of giving. And he keeps on pushing and pushing and pushing like he doesn't know how to stop. And you, you know you should stop seeing him but something compels you to continue meeting him each day. What would you do?"

"I don't know," she whispered so softly that he almost didn't hear her. "I won't ever know because when he did come back, a few weeks ago, he made it abundantly clear that he wants nothing to do with me ever again. I'm nothing to him. Not even a waste of space and time. I'm absolutely, totally and utterly nothing. Do you know how terrible and lonely it is to be nothing? At least with Rory you're something. At least she cares."

"Maybe it would be better for both of us if she didn't." He smiled bitterly, thinking of the irony of their situation. "And for what it's worth, you're not nothing, Li Chang. You're something to me. I think I would even call you a friend." He brought her hand to his mouth and gently brushed his lips over her fingers.

*****

__

"How are you feeling?" he asked as he handed her a glass of water. They had retreated to his bedroom, in his parents' mansion, after the ordeal was over and the last handful of dirt had been thrown.

"As well as can be expected. You?"

"It's weird. I keep on thinking that it can't be real, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I do." Rory sighed, rotating the glass in her hand but making no move to drink from it. "It seems so cliched to say this but she was just so young."

"Our age."

"She was really nice too. Like she was genuinely impressed that my mom made my dress for the Chilton formal. My first Chilton dance."

"Your mom made that dress?" Tristan asked, astonished. "I remember that dress. It was all blue and silky."

"It was a nice dress. Madeline was a nice person. She didn't deserve this."

"No one does."

"I wish that I'd made more effort to stay in touch. I really liked her. She was one of those people you could easily like and imagine being friends with. I guess I even considered her to be one of the few friends I made in Chilton. But I wish I had taken the time to be better friends."

"She was a really happy person," he remembered. "Madeline used to dot her i's with smiley faces. And her favorite color was yellow since third grade. She said it was a happy color."

"The newspaper had some article on teenage road deaths yesterday. I remember reading it and thinking that it was all a bunch of statistics. And Madeline had become just another number, but she was more than a number. She was this person. This person we actually knew, and went to school with. This can't be real, Tristan. I keep on expecting to wake up and realize that it's all a dream. And I'm sick of people with their sympathetic faces and saying that 'it's only life'. Because, why does it have to be life that people die? It's like everyone else is saying that they understand but they can't, not my mom or my grandparents or Luke or Lane or anyone else. Only you and Paris and-" Her voice suddenly seemed stuck in her throat and she couldn't form the words.

"I know. I know." He felt so broken like the world had been dramatically changed because Madeline wasn't in it anymore. But it wasn't the world, just him. 

Tristan was no stranger to deaths. He had attended his first funeral at the age of four; some distant relative had died. Since then he had seen family friends, other relatives and even his grandfather buried into the deep recesses of the muddy earth. This was different though. Maybe because it was someone his own age. Maybe because it was someone he had known since pre-school. Maybe because it was Madeline Lynn, that slightly ditzy brunette who he had kissed and felt up during sixth grade at Daniel Mansfield's birthday party when they were playing 'seven minutes in heaven'.

__

He turned to look at Rory and noted how pale her skin looked against the black of her clothing. Pale and lost. She was still rotating that glass of water around and around, spinning it so that the liquid swirled up and out. The water splashed onto her black skirt and Rory made a little expression of surprise, like 'o'. In a befuddled flurry they both leapt towards the direction of the tissue box and their bodies clashed. Rory lost grip of the glass and it fell onto the carpet with a dull thud, splashing the rest of the water over both of their clothes and on the floor.

"I'm sorry," she exclaimed, her voice reaching the higher pitch of hysteria.

"No. No, it was my fault," he apologized in return. "I'm sorry."

Tristan would never be able to say what exactly happened next. He would never be sure who had made the first move or if they had both moved in tandem. What he would be able to distinctly recall was Rory forcibly pushing him down against his bed. She was the first girl he had ever brought up to his room. 

He fumbled with the buttons of her shirt. His fingers were clumsy and he was having difficulty undoing them. Recklessly, desperately, he popped the three stubborn, remaining buttons and discarded her of the black shirt. It seemed important to rid her of everything black. So the shirt was the first to go, then her skirt. Her shoes had been kicked off, on her own accord, a few seconds ago, but the pantyhose and her underwear were also black. He stripped them off her until there was only white, the pale white expanse of skin. She might have looked like an angel but her lips were too red and swollen. Her captured her mouth and they kissed. 

They had kissed, but it was more like sucking the life out of one another. He was aware of her nakedness and his own. Naked and vulnerable. Mortal. Her nails dug into his skin. He flinched, involuntarily, and winced when cat-like she dragged those nails of hers across his back. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her hands away. "That hurt," he lightly admonished before kissing her palms. Her hands were so small compared to his, almost tiny. Examining them, he realized that she must have drawn blood because her fingertips were stained crimson. 

Next she straddled him, running her hands over his muscles. Her brown hair fell wayward over her face so that he couldn't see her eyes. "You're tense," she murmured. Then she leaned down and nibbled his neck.

His view was slightly hazy, the glaze of lust tingeing his sight, but the impression of childhood memorabilia struck him. There was the gold of some trophies he had won and the blue of the first place ribbons; the silvery shimmer of his dream car; the faces of members from his favorite bands; and a collection of words and phrases making up the titles of books he had once read.

Almost unconsciously he kneaded her breast, his thumb pressing down on the soft, fatty tissue. Their lips found each other again, and tongues invaded mouths, and they were devouring souls. Her hand began to tentatively stroke his erection and he shifted his body up, pressing himself against the palm of her hand.

__

She was wet from tears and other things. He hadn't even noticed when she had begun to cry. He kissed them away and found himself stupidly mumbling, "Don't cry. Please don't cry, Rory."

She smiled at him and replied, "I'm not. You are."

He blinked in surprise, "Oh." Tristan wanted to say more but the feel of her hand running up and down his length was too distracting. He moaned instead and then, with effort, wrenched her hand away and pushed her off him.

"What? What's wrong, Tristan?"

"Condom," he simply stated. He reached for the top of bedside drawer knowing that he had a stash of Trojans there. She waited patiently, flowering his left shoulder with quick kisses, as he fumbled inside the drawer until…success. The wrapper was ripped open and the condom rolled onto him.

By some wordless consensus, they had shifted positions so that he was now on top of her. She wrapped her legs around him and as he looked down at her body below, Tristan was once again struck with the whiteness of her skin. It was a creamy white and not the grayish pallor of death. Her chest heaved, somewhat erratically, from breathing and her heart was throbbing. If he listened very, very, very carefully he might have been able to hear the beating of their hearts as they pumped blood through their veins. She was white. So white. And beautiful. A mortal angel. He plunged into her.

They set their own pace. The first time it was fast and furious and their climax came almost too quickly. The second time they were slower, taking their time. It was languid like the ticking of the clock held no meaning for them. As he moved in and out, his face hovered over hers, only inches apart. He found himself memorizing her expressions. Like the way her eyes would dilate and her lashes flutter. Or how her body quivered and trembled and she would bite on her bottom lip, but that still didn't prevent the throaty moans and gasps from escaping. A few times she screamed, 'God' and 'Tristan' mixed up together. He had never pegged her as a screamer, and she wasn't really. It was only those few times when she was close to the edge and about to tumble down into a free fall of ecstasy. And then, who could really blame her for screaming?

Eventually they grew tired; their youthful bodies could still only take so much. Exhaustion set in, a mixture of their recent activities and the events of the last week, which had cumulated up to today. Heavy lidded, they kissed once more. Gently, he brushed her hair away from her face and he was staring right into her eyes, beyond her blue irises and her black pupils. And then she shut her eyes and fell asleep, her arms wrapped around his waist hugging him tightly. He entered a dreamless state soon after.

When Tristan woke, his bed was empty. He was naked and alone and there was no sign of Rory. There wasn't even a note from her saying goodbye. Panicked and worried, he _dialed her number only to get the older Lorelai Gilmore. He was informed that Rory was at home, safe and sleeping. He left a message for her to call him back. Looking back, Tristan would suppose that part of him knew (or should have known) that she wasn't going to call him._

He found himself dressing and heading outside to the garden. The absence of Rory had made his room too lonely and so he retreated to the comfort of nature. He found himself marveling at the array of flowers in bloom. And there was life all around him: birds flying overhead, worms in the ground, a spider weaving its web, a beetle crawling on the green of a leaf. Eventually, Tristan made his way to the corner of the garden that was his. The corner of the garden where he and Rory had planted the apple tree. It was with surprise that he discovered that there were actually apples hanging on the tree. They were a wonderful red and large in size that they almost looked artificial. Tempting. Sweet. And delicious. But they sat on the higher branches of the tree, too high for Tristan to reach. He wondered if their existence was somehow an omen of something.

A few days later, Tristan and Rory were back in college. Nothing was said of their time in Hartford. Everything returned to normal, like before Madeline Lynn's funeral. Assignments and finals began to take precedence. They went to parties, watched movies and dated other people. Boyfriends and girlfriends entered and exited but Tristan and Rory remained as the constant in each other's lives. Friends only, of course. They forgot that Madeline was dead. They forgot the tears and they forgot to be sad. They forgot that they had had sex. Or at least they tried. Everything returned to normal, on the surface.

*****

They sat at opposite ends of the table refusing to look at one another. She concentrated on her coffee, which was losing warmth, while he was more intent on rocking his chair. The café had just opened and the Saturday morning crowd had yet to filter through; it was still rather early. He knew that his movements were annoying the hell out of her so he continued to tilt his chair back and forth, leaning back more precariously each time and silently daring her to say something. Her eyes were fiery as she picked up her spoon and began clanging it against her cup; Rory knew that this would annoy him. The clanging continued in an irritating fashion until finally Tristan frowned, set his chair back on its proper, upright position and grabbed her hand to forcibly stop the clanging. She mustn't have been expecting his touch because she froze at the feel of his hand against her own. Their eyes met and she quickly dropped the spoon and looked away. She seemed nervous and uncertain. Minutes passed and the silence between them grew more palatable. Unsettled and uneasy she shifted in her chair, opening her mouth several times to speak before shutting it, no words spoken. 

"So," she finally managed to say, but then abruptly stopped there.

"So what?" Tristan asked.

"So are you going to continue being like this?"

"Being like what?" he contorted his lips into a smirk, knowing that it would infuriate her.

"Being like this. Being deliberately cruel!"

"Am I being cruel? Well then, good."

"I think I might just hate you, Tristan DuGrey."

He shrugged nonchalantly, "It wouldn't be the first time."

"Why did you come here today?"

"Because we had an appointment."

"Well, why bother to continue meeting me if you're going to be like this?"

"I don't know." He answered honestly, just as puzzled as Rory.

"You hurt me last night. You hurt me each day for an hour and I let you. And I don't know why I let you. Maybe because I think I deserve it, after everything I've done. Maybe because I need you in my life too much. Of course, I promised myself I would never become one of those girls."

"Funny that, because I promised myself I would never be one of those guys."

"One of those guys?"

"The ones who hurt people they care about. The ones who need someone else so much that that they lose themselves when they're gone. I promised myself that, Rory, when I was twelve years old. Twelve years old is old enough to understand how fucked up your parents really are. And their marriage was no marriage. I was four when I walked into my dad screwing around with some other woman. The woman wasn't important; she never was. All that was important was that my mom was hurt. My mom, she threatened to leave so many times. She did leave, so many times. Dad was always lost during those weeks or months when she was away. Like he couldn't function without her. He needed her too much. And she always returned because she needed him too much. I think, once upon a time, they really loved each other. But somewhere along the lines one or both fucked up. And whatever happened, they couldn't forgive each other. But they needed one another. I promised myself I would never need someone. However, I'm scared, no terrified, that I might just need you, Rory Gilmore. I thought I didn't, but you just had to return into my life and prove me wrong."

"I don't want us to become your parents, Tristan."

He smiled somewhat sadly. "Do you think I do?"

"No, I don't think you do. And that's got to be the something going for us, right? We're both determined not to become like that. So all we need to do is figure out a way to fix this."

"Easier said than done, Gilmore."

"Well, how about you promise to stop hurting me? And I promise to stop letting you hurt me?"

"We can try, I suppose."

She grinned, "You better try, mister. Okay, what's next? We should make a list."

"You and your list."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch. You know from experience that me and my list comes mighty in handy. Ah ha, that's another thing. We deal with the past."

"That's not going to be fun," he warned.

"I know but if we want our friendship to work then it's something we've got to do."

"Our past. Wow, that's going to take us right back to Chilton days when you first waltzed into school looking like the Virgin Mary's clone."

"Good times, they were. You were such an obnoxious, egotistical jerk back then. Looks like not many things have changed," Rory teased.

"Ha, ha. Very funny. Okay, so we deal with our past. What else is on that list of yours?"

"Meaningful conversation during our daily meetings. Not just 'I ate breakfast today, took a shower, went to work, blah, blah.' We used to talk and I mean really talk."

"Next?"

"We do things beyond these one hour a day meetings. I miss things like our dinners."

"And the salsa dancing?"

She giggled, "Yeah, and the salsa dancing."

"Because it leaves you hot and sweaty."

"The weather here is enough to leave me hot and sweaty," she retorted.

"Really?" he waggled his eyebrows suggestively and she swatted him.

"Tristan, be serious! Okay, the next thing on the list is for you to quit smoking."

"What? Cross that out. It's not like I even smoke. Much."

"You still smoke."

"And please, pray tell, Ms. Gilmore, how my smoking will affect our friendship?"

"You'll get yellow teeth and bad breath and therefore I won't want to hang out with you."

"So I whiten my teeth and use breath mints."

"You're quitting smoking and that's final!"

"Ooh, scary. For one moment I thought you were channeling your mother." He mockingly cringed in fright.

"Well, if I call and tell my mom that you've taken up smoking, I'm sure she'll be on the next plane to Malaysia to deal with you."

"Do you think some spanking will be involved?"

"Eeew. Tristan!" Rory shrieked. "That's just gross. You're beyond perverted. I can't believe you said that!"

"Aww, c'mon. You know you've missed my lewd comments."

"But not about _my_ mother!" She grimaced at the thought and smacked him hard on the head. "I still can't believe you said that!"

"Okay, so it was out of line. But, you gotta admit your mom is kinda hot."

"I admit to nothing. And please direct your gutter mind as far away from my mother as possible."

"By the way, how is she?"

"She's good. Really good. I miss her though."

"Yeah, I can imagine. Although, I'm thinking that your phone bills must be astronomical."

"Pretty high," Rory agreed.

"So…"

"So what?"

"So about last night," he paused, uncomfortable and ashamed. "I'm sorry. About my behavior. I didn't mean to be rude. Well, actually I did. But I shouldn't have been. It's no way to treat a friend. So, I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." Her eyes were sparkling and Tristan was glad. "So Li Chang seemed nice. She's really beautiful and talented."

"Yeah, she is."

"Um, are you dating?"

"No. I'm not dating anyone. Li Chang and I, we're not like that. We're…friends."

"But you've slept with her?"

Tristan let out a short laugh, "I almost forgot that you always had some strange radar that could tell you whether or not I'd slept with someone."

"Well, you could always tell with me. And besides, it's not really a radar. It's more like years of observation. You treat a woman you've had sex with differently from others."

"So, what about you and that Jess guy?"

"Jess Mariano. He's a friend. We dated briefly in high school but we've ended up just as really good friends. You might remember me talking about him."

"The name did sound familiar. He's the one from New York? Who went to college in California? Luke's nephew?"

"Yup."

"What brings Jess to Malaysia?"

"Well, he's actually been in Singapore for a few months. He came across for Li Chang's exhibition and for some other business. And, uh, I'm not dating anyone either."

Tristan nodded as he clasped his hands together and twiddled his thumbs. So, they had just established that they were both single. He wondered what they meant, if you believed in cosmic interference, the Fates or God. However, he didn't want to ponder or think too deeply along that particular train of thought. Instead, he worked himself up to asking a question he needed to know. "Who was he, Rory?"

"Who was who?"

"The guy you uprooted your life for? And don't tell me nobody, because he wasn't just nobody."

She looked pained and torn. "You don't want to know, Tristan. _Please._"

Perhaps he should have listened to her and left it there, but he didn't. "I want to know. No, I need to know."

Rory looked away, refusing to meet his gaze as she whispered her answer, "Dean."

Tristan felt as he had been suckered punched, again. He clenched his fist until his knuckles were white. So, now he knew. _Dean._


	4. Numbers

**Author's Note:  **Short and sweet and having taken over one year to write.  I'm so ashamed and most apologetic.  I will not regale you with tales of real life and writer's block and any other glorious excuses that I would invariably be able to come up with.  Just going to let you enjoy, and on with the story… 

**Dedication:  **To all those lovely readers who've persevered with such patience; are there really any of you left?  And as always to B and M.

**Chronicling ****Babylon**

**4. Numbers**

Tristan dreamed that he was six again, hiding in the vastness of his mother's wardrobe.  He was not yet a man – still a little boy, mommy's boy – and not yet worthy of his father's glance.  In his tiny delicate small palms (had they really been that _small_?) he held a bunch of lilies and narcissuses.  They were his mother's favorite flowers.

Evelyn DuGrey was the most beautiful woman in the world, six-year-old Tristan thought.  She had hair spun of gold, like from out of those fairytales she whispered in his ear each night.  She had eyes so brilliant and blue, just like his.  She had a pink bow for a mouth, which pressed lightly against his forehead to become a kiss.  Evelyn DuGrey told her son that he was her little prince, her happily ever after.       

Hiding in the wardrobe with the scent of mommy – Channel No.5, lavender oil and white wine – wrapped around him, little prince Tristan giggled in anticipation.  He imagined mommy's surprise and delight when he jumped out from her wardrobe and presented her with the flowers.  The clicking of heels was to be his signal.

Tristan heard a stomp, clunk, scuffle instead.

"Are you sure the boy's not around?" a man's voice boomed.  The voice was so loud, so loud and so terrifying.  Tristan squeezed the lilies and narcissuses until his hands were sticky with flower blood.

"Yes.  He's with his nanny," a familiar woman's voice (but could that really be mommy?) answered. Tristan decided that mommy was under a spell.   

"Then it's just you and me with nobody to disturb us," wicked evil man said.

"Make sure you use protection," mommy-who-wasn't-really-mommy snapped. "You didn't last time and we're both fucking lucky that I didn't get pregnant.  The _last_ thing I need is _another_ child.  Another clone of him."   

Or maybe it was really a witch that sounded just like mommy.  Yes, Tristan decided, that was it.

The man spoke again, "You do realize that if you were pregnant it would-"

"Yes, yes.  But that's not the point!" the witch screamed. "Don't you see?  Tristan's already just like him.  Whenever I looked at him, I feel sick.  Nauseated.  Daddy and daddy's little boy.  I hate him.  Fucking bastard.  Like I don't know that he screws around with every two-bit whore that'll have him.  I should leave him, just to show him."

"Why don't you?  You could run away with me," the man cajoled.

"No," she whispered. "I can't.  I need him too much."

"But you love _me_, right?"

The question remained hanging in the air as six-year-old, daddy's little boy, Tristan retched over his mother's blue silk dress.  Her favorite dress.  He was suffocating from the stench of Channel No.5, lavender oil, white wine and crushed flowers.         

Through a crack between the wardrobe doors, Tristan saw his mother kiss a man he would later recognize as his father's accountant.

*****

Tristan dreamed he was eight again, and Paris Gellar was his best friend.  Paris was the smartest person Tristan knew.  She always had the answers to everything; hand up first in class, sometimes even before the teacher had finished asking the question.  Paris had blonde hair – nothing like his mother's – which was a little dull and looked a little too brown.  She wasn't the prettiest girl in the world but she had a nice smile.  Tristan liked to say things, do things to make Paris laugh.

"Don't cry," eight-year-old Tristan commanded. "I don't like it when you cry."

"You made me cry," Paris retorted. "You pushed me over and made me cry."

"I swear to never do nothing to make you cry ever, ever again."

Paris smiled then laughed, "It's 'never do anything', silly!"

The best thing about Paris Gellar was that she understood everything about Tristan DuGrey; she had a mommy and daddy who hated her too.    

*****

Tristan dreamed he was nine again, smoking on his first cigar.  Surrounded by several of his father's special friends, he coughed and choked.  His father beamed, patting his back, possessively resting an arm around his shoulders and claiming, "This is my son!"

William DuGrey was a rich man majestic man smart man powerful man good-looking man dominant man charismatic man shrewd man athletic man demanding man aristocratic man strong man virile man man's man.     

In an exclusive club, women with prettily painted red fingernails forced Tristan to drink aged-old whiskey, his father cheering them on.  His throat burned from tradition, patriarchy, betrayal and alcohol.  

Nine-year-old Tristan called his father, 'Sir'.

*****

Tristan dreamed he was fifteen again, extremely cool and the King of Chilton.

*****

Tristan dreamed he was fifteen again, suffering from his first rejection.

*****

Tristan dreamed he was fifteen again, seeing the face of his father's accountant – though it really wasn't the same face: the line of the jaw should have been more angular; the eyes should have been a darker shade of brown – on a boy called 'Dean'.

*****

Tristan dreamed he was fifteen again, meeting Rory Gilmore for the first time.  

*****

Sunday and Tristan woke up to find that Rory was gone.  He found a business card slipped through the gap in his letter box; a familiar Stars Hollow address was scribbled on the back of it.  He almost laughed.

He spent the day in the café, sipping tea and staring at the vacant spot, _her_ vacant spot.  Once, a mother walked up and asked him if the chair was taken.  He found himself replying, "Sorry, I'm saving this seat for someone."  The mother turned and walked away – annoyed, disappointed, worn out – dragging a pouting four year old boy behind her.  The seat remained empty and unclaimed.   

When he got home there was a message on the answering machine.  He pressed 'play' and Rory's voice reverberated through the hollows of his room.  

"Tristan?  It's, um, me.   If you're there, please pick up.  Otherwise, uh, hear me out…"

Tristan did not need any more excuses; yesterday's revelation had been explanation enough.  He hit the 'delete' button, cutting her off.  Cutting her out.  And it was as if Rory had never been to Malaysia. 

Almost.

*****

Another Sunday.

Sitting in the middle of KLCC Park, Tristan watched the sun futilely trying to break through a dense patch of trees, vines, jungle.  KLCC Park was so obviously sculpted by man, a gesture to nature amidst the concrete, steel, glass buildings of modernity.  But this particular patch was displaced.  It did not belong.  It was shady darkness, murky with history and past and the time before.

Tristan had come to Malaysia to escape – run away little boy, run, run, _run_ – but he had found that he could not escape.  Like a haunting ghost she had followed him here.  And now Rory Gilmore was an apparition in the crowds.  Her specter lingered in the blackness of the patch.    

Rory was the humidity suffocating him.  Rory was the motorbike dangerously zipping through traffic and grazing the pedestrian eating durian on the sidewalk.  Rory was the stench of open drains.  Rory was the burning sensation of too many chilies and Sunday abandonments.

Another Sunday.

Tristan watched the dense patch of broken yesterdays, and bit into an apple imported from China.

*****

_The smell of apple pie baking hung in the air._

_"I can already taste the rich buttery pastry and the spicy apples," exclaimed Rory. "It's one of Sookie's.  I'm just reheating it in the oven and then we can feast!"_

_"Whatever," Tristan replied._

_"What's wrong with you?  You're never this grumpy in the mornings.  And I should know, having been your poor, long-suffering roommate for a year."_

_He hesitated before answering.  From his parents, from military school, from Rory, Tristan had learnt silence.  His DuGrey tongue was made for everything except speaking the things that mattered most to him.  He swallowed pills of muteness daily._

_But today, perhaps invigorated by the apples, Tristan found a voice. "Dean came over yesterday," he said._

_"So?"_

_He was surprised at how sound tightened his throat.  He had become accustomed to the silence.  He managed, "It was three in the morning."_

_"You've had people come over at all sorts of hours, Tristan.  It's not like you have any right to complain.  Besides, Dean brought gifts -- Sookie's pie!"  _

_"Pie does not solve everything."_

_"Such sacrilege.  I promise you, Stars Hollow's Honor, that one taste of Sookie's pie will make any and all problems vanish.  It is heaven in a pie!" she enthused, but he noticed that her voice was too chipper._

_He noticed that her voice was too chipper.  He noticed that she was giving him an easy out -- they could forget he had ever spoken and let the silence settle over them._

_Instead he chose to speak, "I saw the two of you, through a crack in the almost fully-closed door.  The bathroom light was a pale soft yellow.  You were huddled together and I thought I had never seen a more beautiful and more horrible sight in my life."_

_Rory's lips drew into a thin line of displeasure, "Waxing poetical while describing your voyeuristic tendencies, Tristan?"_

_"What are you doing, Rory?  Dean is married."_

_"I know that," she snapped. "But his marriage is breaking down-"_

_"And that makes it okay?!"  Tristan noted that her eyes were hard and angry – a cool stony blue.  They matched his eyes._

_"For you information," she was grinding her teeth as she spoke, her hands clenched into fists of fury. "Nothing is going on between Dean and me.  Nothing that is except for friendship.  He came to me at three in the morning upset, and like any good friend I offered him a shoulder to cry on.  So stop making accusations and jumping to conclusions."_

_"That's not how he's going to see it," Tristan retorted._

_"That is not true.  Why do you always have to be so down on Dean?  I thought you were over your infantile prejudicial hatred of him."_

_Rory was blazing with indignation, and fueled by her anger and his own anger and desire too long repressed Tristan smothered her mouth with his lips. _

_Moment of –  _

_Supple  _

_Buried memories bubbled, surfaced, overwhelmed with dip of tongue._

_Familiar  _

_Slick wet friction recalled tears and anguish and disastrous unspoken their night together first kiss._

_Sweet_

_Yearning sighed and tilted head gave way to – _

_In this moment, Tristan tasted apples and possibility._

_The moment after and she pushed him away.  Her hand was frantically wiping her mouth, ridding herself of the touch and taste of him.  _

_"Why did you do that?" she berated. "That was a mistake.  It should have never have happened."_

_"Why?" he asked. "Why is it a mistake?"_

_"Because you only kissed me as part of some ridiculous competition, which you've devised in your head, against Dean.  It doesn't mean anything.  And it would just spoil everything.  What we have is perfect, Tristan.  You're the perfect friend."_

_"You just don't get it," Tristan croaked.  He wanted to say more but he was losing his voice to the perfect friend._

_"Get what?" she whispered, as if afraid of his answer._

_"That Dean still loves you."_

_"I know," she said, "that he still loves me.  But not the way that you're thinking.  We were each other's first loves.  Part of me still thinks that Dean was it.  The guy I could have, should have, married.  He was my idea of the perfect happily ever after.  And I know he feels the same way, especially now when his marriage is falling apart.  But we're only each other's ideals.  It's not reality."_

_The stench of ruined apples overwhelmed Tristan.  He did not know what to say.  How to explain devastation?  Instead he lamely commented, "I think the apple pie is burning."_

_Rory rushed to the oven.  He watched her yelp in dismay and throw the pie in the wastebasket.  And he made a mental note to start scanning the papers for an apartment of his own. _

*****

Sunday – one month later – he woke up, missing her warmth.  He missed Rory's warmth, those blue eyes of hers that...No, he wouldn't go there.  That path lead only to madness, as someone infinitely much wiser than Tristan had once said.     

Instead, his eyes found Li Chang sitting on the other side of the room, a dark shape of a person on the bamboo chair he had once bought for ten ringit.  He felt that he had been here before, with another him and another _her_.  Not déjà vu, but moments recycled and strung together to make up his life.

"You're dressed," he noted.  He glanced at the clock – it was four in the morning – and asked, "You're leaving so early?"

"Yes," she answered. "I think it is time."

"Well, okay."

"No, you do not understand.  Tristan, it is _time_."

He wished he could see her; shrouded in the darkness of early morning he could not see her face, her tell-tale eyes.  "What do you mean, Li Chang?"

"Do you ever get sick of this?  This life we've chosen?  Battered, beaten and defeated before thirty."

"I happen to be quite successful," he told her.

"I must inform you that there are cracks in your mask of perfection, Mr. Tristan DuGrey."

"I never said I was perfect," he sneered. "There is no such thing as perfect.  Perfection is for fucked up losers.  Perfection is for those who can't accept reality; that reality is hell and there's nothing better out there."

"So it's better for you to hide in your hole and shut out reality and everyone else?"

"Obviously I'm not doing that great a job because you're still here."

He did not know who he was speaking to anymore.  Li Chang's brown eyes seemed to flash blue and there was Rory…beautiful, dreadful, haunting Rory.

"Why won't you leave me alone?" he demanded. "I don't need you.  I don't want you.  I don't love you.  I don't like you.  I don't even hate you.  I am indifferent.  You mean nothing to me.  You're a mosquito, that's what you are.  Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.  All that constant buzzing.  And the sucking of blood.  Can't forget the sucking of blood.  I should squash you and destroy you and I wouldn't even care.  You're just an insect.  You don't mean anything, so just go!"

He looked into her dizzily brown-blue eyes and saw hurt.  It made Tristan glad.  "Am I causing you pain?  Boo hoo.  Poor little you," he mocked. "You think that it matters to me what you feel?  I'm so sick of feeling anything for you.  You've drained me, my little mosquito.  You've drained me of any compassion and love.  There is no such thing as love."

"I don't believe that," she (Who is she?  Rory?  Li Chang?  _Rory?_) whispered.

"Do you even know who I am?" he asked, his voice cracking with the suppressed pleas of things he could not say. "I am Tristan DuGrey.  I am not Dean.  I can never be Dean.  I am not the perfect friend.  I am not perfect.  I have this fear.  No, that's not it.  Maybe it's a dream.  In the mornings after a hot, hot shower, I am staring at myself in the mirror.  The mirror is fogged up from the steam.  I press my palm against the glass – it is surprisingly cool – and wipe the mirror clean until I can see myself.  But each swipe of the hand is really wiping away the thin veil of illusion that covers me.  I am wiping away the Tristan with blonde hair, blue eyes and model feature.  I am wiping it all away and then, _then_, there is nothing left."

He no longer saw Rory or Li Chang.  Instead his eyes were focused on the grey moth resting on the windowsill, bathed in the glow of red early morning.

"I can hear the numbers of my life being torn off the calendar, ticking their last tick.  I can't forget you but I don't know if I love you anymore.  _Rory._  Or maybe I love you too much.  Either way, it doesn't really matter.  You left me a card with a Stars Hollow address and it is time.  But you should go, though."            

The grey moth fluttered its wings.  Tristan blinked then he was looking at Li Chang, "You should go."

"Goodbye," Li Chang said.  She kissed his lips and he stood like a statute, without feeling her and without feeling anything.

That night Tristan boarded a plane, destination: HOME.


	5. Deuteronomy to Kings

**Author's Note: **Well I initially had hoped to have this update up during early February.  I suppose late February isn't too bad.  Especially considering the fact that it didn't take me over a year to write.  Also, ghost ships and demons were inspired by Roland Barthes' _A Lover's Discourse_.

**Disclaimer: **The lyrics used from Elton John's _Blue Eyes_ and the Everly Brothers' _Love Hurts_ are not mine.

**Chronicling ****Babylon**

**5. Deuteronomy to Kings**

_How does a love end? – Then it does end?  To tell the truth, no one – except for the others – ever knows anything about it; a kind of innocence conceals the end of this thing conceived, asserted,_ lived _according to eternity.  Whatever the loved being becomes, whether he vanishes or moves into the realm of Friendship, in any case I never see him disappear: the love which is over and done with passes into another world like a ship into space, lights no longer winking: the loved being once echoed loudly, now that being is entirely without resonance (the other never disappears when and how we expect)._

_- extract from the chapter "The Ghost Ship" from Roland Barthes' A Lover's Discourse_

America had become a different world in Tristan's absence.  The cities, the towns, the streets, the landscape were all barely familiar, like he had only ever caught a glimpse of this country from a photograph in a travel brochure.  Tristan was navigating the murky terrain of a past he had tried to repress.  And in his journey back he had become lost.  The front passenger seat of the rental car was filled with maps.  There were red scrawling lines tracing different routes and various paths that all lead to one point…__

Black dot – 

here – 

Hartford.

2 a.m.  The mansion was cloaked in black, home to some of the lost souls of material society.  He crept inside – night thief here to steal his childhood back – and was assaulted by the stench of lilies and narcissuses.  He clenched the maps in his hands, paper crumpling and red ink staining palms and fingers.  

Tristan trembled and shivered.  It was winter in America and everywhere, especially this house, was cold.  So, so cold.  And he could barely remember warmth, humidity, Malaysia.     

Slowly, every move an effort, he began to ascend the DuGrey staircase, stairs to six generations of DuGreys.  Step.  Step.  Step.  Then there was the sound of oak creaking and a lamp was suddenly switched on.  He had forgotten to skip the squeaky fourth step.

In artificial light Tristan saw the broken Barbie of his mother again.

"Darling," she slurred, "you're back!  I waited up for you.  I know you said you were going to stay at work late but I didn't think you meant _this_ late.  You must be tired and hungry.  Poor dear.  I got the maid to set aside dinner for you.  It's in the oven."

"Mo-"

"Hush, William, hush.  Hush.  Hush.  Shush.  You have to be quiet.  Shush.  Very, very quiet!" Evelyn DuGrey exclaimed.  She waved her hands erratically and attempted to place a finger over her mouth but ended up poking her left eye instead, sending her off into fits of hysterical laughter.

"Mother," he said, "it's Tristan.  Your son."

"Don't be ridiculous," she scolded. "Tristan is just a baby.  Itty, bitty, rock-a-bye baby.  Rock-a-bye baby."

"Mother," Tristan attempted once more but she didn't hear him, lost in her own world.

"Tristan:_ my_ baby with _my_ blue eyes.  Blue eyes, baby's got blue eyes," she crooned. "Like a deep blue seee-eeee-eeea…on a blue bluu-uooo-oooe day."  At the top of the staircase, hands clutched to the railing, tangled blonde hair draped across the dissolving lines of a time ravaged face, Evelyn DuGrey sang in a wobbly and drunken but otherwise perfect voice.  And Tristan noted with the jaded eyes of his adulthood that she was still the most devastatingly beautiful person he had ever known.

She stopped her singing suddenly and began to play with her hair, twisting it into golden curls.  Then speaking to the empty space beyond Tristan's left shoulder she mewled, "William?  Why do you work so late?  You're always working.  Why won't you look at me, William?  I fucked the accountant yesterday.  He touched me like you touched me.  Made me feel so good.  Touch me like you used to, William."  

Evelyn DuGrey's right hand ran across her thigh, white crepe de chine bunching up in her palm.  With a cast of night shadows surrounding her, she seemed to be posing in severe spotlight.  A dreamy smile crept on her face and she swayed to the rhythm of her breathing and softly recommenced her singing.  "Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and mars…take a lot of pain, take a lot of pain," she hummed.  

The second hand of a clock ticked over to 2:17 a.m. and she blinked three times as a moment of clarity hit Evelyn DuGrey.  For the first time that night she recognized her son.  "Tristan!  What you doing here?  You're meant to be in Malaysia," she exclaimed, eyes flickering with something he might have once remembered as motherly love.  However before Tristan could reply her eyes glazed over and she was lost to him once more.   

Tristan did not know what to feel for this fragmented doll of a mother-woman-stranger.  He was too tired and too lost himself.  Instead he resigned himself to walking up the rest of the stairs and heading to his room.  But as he passed his mother, her tiny perfectly manicured hand reached out and grabbed his arm.  She held him firmly in her grasp, left hand cupping his chin.  Tristan's eyes met the identical pools of blue on his mother's face.  When she spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically hard and didactic, "First commandment, my little prince: love is just a lie, made to make you blue."  Even after she had released him and quickly disappeared into the depths of the mansion, there was heavy silence which pressed the air – a silent reminder of his mother's words. 

When he finally entered the room that he had always called his own – now only holding the traces of the person he once was – Tristan headed straight to his bed, lying prostrate across the mattress.  He wanted to close his eyes and fall into oblivion but it was impossible; his blue eyes remained wide and unblinking as he stared up at the blankness of the ceiling. 

He pulled the card out of his right pant pocket, fingering the paper: tough, durable, textured and _hers_.

RoryRoryRory.  Mantra in his head.  LoveLiesBlue.  Mantra in his head.  DeepBlueSea.  Mantra in his head. 

Desperately he tried to forget those things, promising himself that he would deal with them tomorrow.  Right now he needed sleep.  But when sleep eventually claimed him, he dreamed of a ghost ship in stormy sea waters, captained by a demon with indistinct features.  The ghost ship was sinking as waves flooded the deck, thunder roared up above, lightening struck the mast, and the demon captain yelled, _"This can't go on!"_  Lightening struck once again, and in that flash of light Tristan saw the face of the demon – his own.

Then he woke up.  

In the morning it was as if nothing had happened.  No crazy dreams, no crazy mother, nothing.  His mother – apparently without a memory of last night's events – made the expected noises of 'how nice it was to have him back' before disappearing to arrange his reintroduction into Hartford society.  His father gave him a perfunctory nod as acknowledgment of Tristan's presence before returning his attention to the eggs, bacon and toast which constituted breakfast.  And as Tristan slowly sipped his orange juice, he wondered if he had done the right thing by coming back to a past and a country that no longer felt like his own.

Still he had made promises to himself to come home, to see Rory, and so he went on the road again with the windshield wipers swishing white slush across the glass.  It had snowed heavily in the time before sunrise.  The whiteness of the world seemed to refract and glare and he felt blind.  The road home had been paved with good intentions and Tristan tried to remember them as he approached Stars Hollow, the town which had cultivated one Rory Gilmore.  But his head was full of demons, ghost ships and his mother – _love_, _lies_, _blue_ – reverberating.  He could not see and he could only hear _love_, _lies_, _blue_.  

Somehow he arrived at the Gilmore household.  And standing on their front lawn, staring at the house, the front porch, the gnomes, he realized that everything seemed achingly the same.  With shallow and uneven breath he willed his legs and feet to march those thirteen steps it took to Rory's front door.  Then Tristan DuGrey knocked on wood.

There was no answer.  

He waited until 9:47 p.m. before he finally gave up.  For the next six days Tristan sat on the Gilmore porch waiting.  He was slightly astonished that no Stars Hollow native – Taylor, Miss Patty, Kirk, Babette – had appeared with their demanding questions.  Had their standards slipped?  Still, he wasn't going to voluntarily seek them out even if they could inform him as to Rory's (and even Lorelai's) whereabouts.  

However despite flittering away part of the six days on the Gilmore porch, the majority of seconds were actually spent hiding in his room staring at the gold of trophies, the blue of first place ribbons, and living at the edges of his boyhood.  He spent the six days thinking about his mother, his father, their marriage and love.  He thought of high school and college and friends and lovers and Rory.  He plotted and mapped all the significant and insignificant black dots that had lead him to this point in life.     

On the seventh day, Tristan allowed himself to be reintroduced into society.  The evening's gathering was exactly what Tristan had expected: boring, pretentious, skin crawling.  Mothers and daughters were all over him, seeing the prospect of a future husband and the DuGrey fortune.  It was like something out of a trashy romance novel set in nineteen century England that he had once caught Paris Gellar reading when they were ten.

"Malaysia is _so_ exotic, _so_ foreign and_ so _far away.  It was _so_ brave of you to go live there for three years!"

"My, my.  You _are_ looking wonderfully tanned."

"Did you meet anyone interesting over there?"

But maintaining a charming smile and making small talk came naturally to him, like the blood flowing through his veins.  And so it continued as Hartford's elite welcomed him in grand style, the event coordinated and overseen through the critical eyes of his mother. 

Tristan had to give credit to her: Evelyn DuGrey had defined and refined the art of always publicly maintaining the image of perfection.  She knew her role, as did his father, as did Tristan.  They were the perfect picture of the perfect couple of the perfect son of the perfect family of the perfect empire.  No one was to suspect anything but perfection, no one ever did except maybe during that little slip-up in junior year which led to Tristan's ejection into military school.

It made him sick and sad and scared.  This was to be his world, his sovereignty.  This was the black dot on the map.  This was the place he called home.  But truthfully, he had had enough.  Tristan had kept his promises as best he could.  It was not his fault they could not be fulfilled.  And his return to America had not been a complete waste of time.  If nothing else, he had proved that there was not a single thing left here for him anymore.   

Tristan turned his heels, ready to pack his bags and run back to Malaysia, when a high-pitched voice from a nearby conversation stopped him.

"Have you heard about the Gilmores?  They say it's cancer.  Richard, of course, is devastated.  And their daughter, Lorelai – yes, the one that was embroiled in such a scandal with the Hayden boy when she was fourteen? no, sixteen or whatever her appalling age, too young indeed, was – is at the hospital almost every day.  And the granddaughter…what's-her-name…or it's Lorelai too?…returned from somewhere in Asia.  Yes, they've been staying with Richard for a few weeks now…really very sad.  Everyone's expecting her to go any minute now although it has been over a month now..."

*****

There was a dense clump of tree trunks – the branches bare, spidery and seemingly touching the clouds – that gave an empty haunted feel to what had once been a pretty country garden.  Through the overgrown grass, flecked white with evaporating snow, his feet stumbled upon a line of pebbles that had once served as a path.  Tristan followed the trail, distinctly aware of the black shape of the derelict Independence Inn looming in the background.

Earlier in the day he had been in Hartford, knocking on the elderly Gilmores' front door with an offering of flowers and condolences.  He had been thanked by a maid and informed that nobody was home.  Apparently Richard and Lorelai were visiting Emily in the hospital and the maid wasn't quite sure where young Miss Lorelai was.   So on a hunch he was here, trampling through the Inn's gardens.

As Tristan rounded a bend he caught a glimpse of a small tool shed.  Rory's first home.  Her favorite place in the world.

He noted that a small perimeter around the shed had been cleared, the density of grass having been hacked to bay by a pair of gardening shears.  Not to mention that the door to the shed, despite its squeaking hinges, appeared to have recently acquired a new layer of red paint.

When Tristan opened the door he saw her; a mixture of the girl he had loved and the woman he had wanted to hate.  She was crouched on the floor with a brush and bucket at hand, wearing a faded blue t-shirt with the Chilton emblem imprinted on the top left corner.  He recognized the t-shirt as one which had once served as part of their prerequisite gym uniform.  It was not surprising that she could still fit into it.  Physically she hadn't really changed that much from her fifteen year old self. 

Watching as Rory scrubbed the floors furiously, the headphones over her ears making her unaware of his presence, Tristan wondered where the time had gone.  Clichéd thought really, but he had spent almost a week examining and re-examining his life and relationships only to be gob-smacked by all the time that had passed him by.  All those hours, minutes, seconds _gone_.  Irreclaimable.  And it wasn't about all the things he had done wrong and all the things he should have done differently.  Nor was it about all the things that she had done wrong and the things she should have done differently.  They didn't matter, because that time was gone.  The ghost ship had sailed.  Demon vanished.  And calm acceptance washed over him.

Tristan walked over to her hunched form and gently placed a hand on Rory's shoulder.  She stood up and swiveled around, eyes widening, fingers tugging the headphones down. 

"Hey, there," he greeted. 

"Hi.  _Hi_," she replied, her voice inflecting to demonstrate her surprise, her questions. 

"I heard about your grandma," he told her. "Hartford gossip mills are still working as hard as ever.  I'm sorry, Rory."

"Are you apologizing for those flibbertigibbets or about my grandma?" she attempted to lightly joke, but there was a slight strain in her voice.

"Both," Tristan answered.  His hand was still resting on her shoulder and she had unconsciously leaned closer, taking comfort from his touch.  The space between them was almost nothing.  "But more so about your grandma," he continued. "I know how much she means to you.  I know how this must be tearing you apart."

"I'm okay.  Well, not okay.  But compared to mom and grandpa," Rory said trying to shrug off his concern. "Anyways, what are you doing here?  Back in America, I mean."

"It was time to stop running away.  It was time to come home," he began to explain.

There was a lot to say and it all came out as a gush of words stumbling over commas and full stops.  Tristan ran his fingers through his hair eleven times, a nervous gesture he wasn't quite sure where he had picked up from.  It seemed weird, surreal, downright bizarre that they were having this conversation in light of everything. Let alone having this conversation in such a civilized manner.  He had expected it to be harder, more painful, more tears, more yelling and with a ring of finality that would end everything that was Tristan and Rory.  But all that had ended was years of pent up resentment and anger and sorrow.    

"I'm sorry about Malaysia.  I didn't handle things very well," Tristan concluded.

"It's my fault too," Rory insisted. "I knew when I told you and I knew when I did what I did…well…I _knew_.   And there's no excuse for that considering how you felt and I felt.  And even how Dean felt.  I hurt him terribly, you know.  I've been selfish and stupid and…and…scared.  I'm scared, Tristan.  Of what we had or could have had and even of what we have lost.  Your friendship means everything to me and the knowledge that I've lost that…that scares me more than you know."  

"Almost lost," he interrupted. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't still your friend, Rory."

She smiled gratefully before continuing, "I'm scared of being an adult when I still feel like a kid, Tristan.  But most of all, I'm scared of grandma dying.  She can't _die_-"

He moved forward, wrapping his arms around her, enfolding her into a comforting embrace, and there was no space, no time, nothing between them.  She stopped pretending to be okay, letting go of her composure and sobbing into his shirt.  He held her tightly, now and then rubbing circles across her back as her body shook with distress.

After awhile it grew almost peaceful.  He could smell the distinct odor of the lemon-scented cleaner and the icy, grassy, woody fragrance of the garden surrounding the shed.  There was the chirping of birds coming from outside and the rustling of wind.  The wooden floorboards of the shed creaked as Tristan shifted a little.  Rory let out one or two muffled sobs but mostly the shed was filled with the sound of their breathing.

The afternoon light cast a warm glow which illuminated the room with hues of gold.  He noted that Rory had been busy.  The walls were a pretty soft blue and appeared to have been recently decorated with hand-painted sunflowers.  There was also an assortment of flowers in six vases placed throughout the room; flowers that Tristan assumed Rory had picked from the Inn's garden.

Eventually Rory pulled away to ask, "So how did you know where to find me?" 

He laughed then, a series of chuckles that was as liberating as Rory's tears had been.  She stared at him weirdly, not sure what to make of his response.  Then when his laughter had subsided, Tristan twisted his mouth into a familiar insufferable grin, "This is me you're talking about.  The omniscient, omnipotent Tristan DuGrey."

"No, _seriously_," she complained.

Still smirking he replied, "I know you."

Rory nodded, accepting his words and with it the history that bound them.  She reached down to take his right hand, giving it a quick squeeze as she said, "I'm glad you're here."

His answer was simple, without thought and over-analysis: "Me too."


	6. Revelations and so it begins…

**Disclaimer: **Extract from _The Lover_ belongs to Marguerite Duras.

**Rating: **R

**Author's Note: **Another year gone by although amazingly I'm updating. Moreover, I'm done. Finished. I want to thank all the readers who have managed to persevere and stay the course. I want to thank all the readers who are long gone, and I don't really blame them considering the time frame it took for me to write this. Also, I think this is it for me. I'm not writing another series like this again, for a number of reasons including lack of time. But I've enjoyed the crazy, insane ride. Finally, I want to thank B and Bug, because you'll always be the most fabulous of girls.

**

* * *

**

Chronicling **Babylon**

**6. Revelations (and so it begins…)**

"One day, I was already old, in the entrance of a public place a man came up to me. He introduced himself and said, "I've known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you're more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged."

-- extract from _The Lover_ by Marguerite Duras

Winter came and went. All the snow had melted too soon and the earth – soft, yielding and consuming – had opened up to take Emily Gilmore. It was three days before spring but the flowers had bloomed early this year. Unfurling white petals on green reedy stems were cut to create extravagant sympathy wreaths that saturated the air with sweet, heady perfumes.

Dressed all in black, Rory was pale and beautiful in the bright light of spring. It was a blue sky day of sun and no clouds but Tristan could not see out to forever. Dirt thudded onto the lowered coffin and it was hard to imagine that the sleek mahogany and walnut contained the force and vibrancy that was once Rory's grandmother. The final darkness of earth covered Emily and then wreaths and flowers were propped against the headstone as if in a grandiose testament of a life lived.

Standing at the edges, black jacket billowing a little as a small breeze took up, Tristan took the time to see Rory. Really see her. She was like one of those lilies on a nearby wreath – cut at the root and slowly fading in the center. Her eyes were blank, framed by tears and lashes. Her lips were thin and hurting from the polite smile that she kept plastered on her face as she greeted Emily's last guests. Richard and Lorelai stood nearby her, but they were tired and drained – father and daughter huddled in a shaky lean without foundation. So the burden of Gilmore dignity and decorum was laid on the colorless curve of Rory's too tense shoulders.

Tristan longed to go over and envelope her in his arms; brush the wayward tendrils of hair off her face; to be the body she could lean on. But he had promised her, early this morning, that he would stay away.

"Don't…don't touch me," she had begged. "If you touch me, I will crumble. And I can't…I just can't break down. I need to be strong. Grandma would hate it if I made a scene."

So he stayed away and hated the distance between them. He hated this world, this society with its false sympathy, and the ladies with lacy handkerchiefs who dabbed at non-existent tears and were careful never to ruin their eye-makeup. And ten feet away, Tristan watched as Rory wilted, just a little more, every time another Hartford elite grabbed her arm and offered their condolences.

It hit Tristan then, as Rory lifted her head and glanced his way (but not seeing him, because her eyes were blank, blank, blank), that he loved her still. They were meant to be just friends. He thought they were just friends. Three years over, with the heat of Malaysia, grey moths, red sunsets, the last one and half months gone by, the cold of Emily's cancer, the desolation of the Independence Inn, ghost ships and demons, the memory of New York, the shattered glass of unfulfilled dreams, and he loved her still.

Eventually the crowd dissipated and it was just the two of them – Tristan and Rory, Rory and Tristan – standing in the graveyard with ten feet between them. Richard and Lorelai had bustled into the stretch of black limo a few minutes ago, sparing several concerned glances Rory's way, only to leave with the confidence that Tristan would be there to take care of her.

His heart should have warmed at the trust.

Instead he was terrified.

He knew he could break her, with a palm caress of cheek. Knew, too, that there was something murky, twisted and unabsolved seeded within him that would relish such an action. A festering never-quite forgotten old wound. God, he loved her...and he wanted to hurt her. Because pain, pain was the only certainty. The only way he could be sure that he could still make her feel something.

Rory stood before him: tiny and frail and too much like the doll he had snatched from Amber Gordon, the day Amber declared in the school yard that she was going to marry Tristan DuGrey (when she was six and he was seven). He had grabbed the doll – made out of porcelain with colored glass for eyes and real human hair for the doll's pretty brown ringlets – and thrown it hard on the concrete ground. Then, carefully, deliberately, he had lifted his right leg before bringing the solid heel of his shoe down. The doll's face had been devastated. A shattered porcelain arm, pulled out of joint, had lain limply on the ground – the tiny fingers still reaching out. A glassy eye had popped out and rolled in circles along the concrete. Hints of green and blue glinted and streamed as the sun had hit the colored glass eye like it was a prism. Amber had stood in the school yard sobbing as the delighted squeals of their classmates rocking high and low on the nearby swings echoed through the air.

Seven years later and Tristan had repeated (or was it completed?) that trudge of destruction. Seven years later and Tristan had broken all that Amber Gordon had to give. On the grassy green of the school yard, he had pushed into her with the fumbling vigor of his fourteen years. His hands had gripped her shoulders until her pale skin darkened. Her face was marred by dirt and her carefully curled hair was mussed and splayed against the ground. And pretty doll-like Amber Gordon who had only dreamed of white dresses, lacy veils and a bouquet of white roses had screamed and screamed and screamed at every thrust. Later, she was sobbing again (in the school yard) as Tristan stood up, zipped up his pants, and coolly walked away from the not-so-secret corner behind the Chilton gardener's tool shed.

At six, his mother had declared Tristan just like his father. And maybe that was true. Because he had broken Amber, Kate, Jennifer, Gwendolyn, Iris and countless others like they were a long line of porcelain dolls on his mantel piece; like in a mimicry of his mother who was perpetually being destroyed by his father.

So staring at Rory, sunk in her black coat, with several chrysanthemum petals caught in her hair (little white petals that had been blown off the wreaths and swept up by a gusty wind), Tristan was terrified. The trust was too much. And Tristan did not dare touch Rory.

Instead he offered her a wan smile. She could barely smile back in return.

"We should go," he told her.

"Not yet," she whispered and walked over to the fresh grave.

Her hand stroked the grey marble headstone, fingers tracing the carvings that spelt out Emily's name. Then her fingers drifted down to the words: _Born to Eternal Life_.

"I miss her. I miss her so much," Rory sobbed.

She collapsed to her knees and there was the contrast of black coat and crushed white flowers against the green of grass and the grey of headstone. Tristan stepped closer, his hand reaching out. His fingers were almost caressing Rory's hunched shoulders and then he touched her. She didn't break at his touch – Rory was much stronger, more sturdy than any porcelain doll. So Tristan knelt down and wrapped his arms around her. They remained like that: two solid figures in black, clutching onto one another with the desperation of life.

* * *

Spring warmed into summer and Tristan saw Rory every day. At Rory's insistence, he took to sleeping over at her place. And it was like the period right after college when Rory had been virtually broke – living off the pittance of her first salary and saving up for a place of her own – and had ended up crashing at Tristan's apartment for over a year.

It was like the grinding wheels of a grandfather clock had been wound back and they were back in the center of their friendship again. There were picnics in a park during lunchtime, and constant telephone calls during the work day, and salsa dancing, and bar hopping, and the general laze of a Sunday afternoon in bed. They shared the same bed and he would wake up in the mornings with Rory curled under his arm. They fell into rituals like coffee, breakfast and the exchange of newspapers in the morning, or dinners on the couch flipping through channels with the tv remote. Tristan thought he might be happy.

Sometimes, though, he wondered if Rory was clinging onto the past, _onto him_, too tightly as she still tried to grapple with the loss of her grandmother. The specks of blue in her eyes were sometimes adrift. Sometimes she wrung her fingers, fidgeted with the placement of ornaments, and couldn't quite smile. Once Tristan thought he had caught her crying, but Rory had wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands and declared the room dusty.

But the pain was subsiding. And they were there for each other. Tristan liked heading into the bathroom during the mornings and nights to find Rory already there brushing her teeth. She would hand him his toothbrush with a fresh squeeze of toothpaste already squirted onto the bristles. They would brush in silence, sometimes elbows and hips jostling one another. There was comfort in the accidental bump of bodies in this twice daily norm. He would hand her a red plastic cup filled with water and wait for Rory to rinse and spit before taking his turn.

Living with Rory was much more preferable than existing in the hallowed halls of the DuGrey mansion. The sometimes frantic but always soothing domesticity of Rory's home made Tristan wish and believe. It was the stirring of the forever dream when Tristan had only known nightmares for three years (and all of his childhood).

Now, Tristan thought of possibility as he and Rory fell into the rhythm of washing and drying. It was late evening with the soft beams of the streetlights filtering through the white lace of the kitchen curtains. The pile of dirty dishes in the sink slowly subsided with the squeak of towel and glass, the splash of water, the clang of forks and spoons and knives. In the background, the low monotones of the radio announcer could be heard.

His fingers slid against Rory's when he took a dripping plate off her hands. He threw her a smile and she flicked soapy water at him in response. A bubble floated upwards, drifting to the tip of Tristan's nose where it landed with a 'pop'. Rory sniggered and Tristan scowled.

"You think that's funny, do you?" he growled.

"Yes, absolutely hilarious," she giggled.

"We'll see about that," he proclaimed. With a devious twinkle in his eye and a wicked grin on his face, he gathered the tea towel long in his hands and prepared for retaliation.

Rory eyed him cautiously, easing away, with her foamy hands thrust out in a block. Her actions were futile. Tristan angled his hands and the tea towel snapped through the air hitting Rory on the bottom.

"That's it, DuGrey," she threatened. "This means war. And just as fair warning: the Gilmores fight dirty."

The next few minutes were squeals and shouts as water and towels went flying. Chairs, books and lamps were knocked over as the fight escalated out of the kitchen and into the living room. Rory skittered in front of the couch in an attempt to use it as some kind of fortress. Cushions were flung in the air hitting Tristan with a solid thump on the arm, head, chest but they didn't deter him. Steadily he progressed closer before leaping and tackling Rory. They landed on the couch, a tangle of limbs and soggy clothes.

"So much for 'Gilmores fight dirty'," Tristan taunted. "I do believe I've just won the war."

"Not quite," Rory murmured and suddenly Tristan was acutely aware of her body pressed against his.

He could feel the softness of curves, the warmth of flesh contrasting the chill of their wet clothes, the heave of chests as they breathed. And they were breathing rapid and shallow. With the slithering swiftness of a snake, Rory launched up and struck – a kiss square on his mouth.

Tristan tumbled back with the memory of Rory's lips. Their positions were reserved now. Tristan sprawled on his back, on the couch, and Rory on top of him.

"Rory?" he had to ask; his mouth still burning from the sear of her kiss.

She looked straight at him. Her blue eyes bore into his with promise, dreams and possibility. Deliberately she pressed her forefinger against the cross of his mouth, forbidding questions. Her hands skidded up his chest, dragging the waterlogged cotton of his shirt up and over his head.

Rory took all the initiative and Tristan let her. She scattered kisses over his torso, traced swirls along his abdomen, and his nails gripped into the yarn of the couch at each of her actions. His breath hitched as her tongue lingered over the concaves of his collarbone. He watched with too much want in his eyes as she undid the buttons of her top, letting the material fall down her shoulders and onto the carpet.

She undressed them both until they were bare and naked before one another. The overhead glare of lights shone down on Rory and she was a radiant sheen of Tristan's present.

"I want this. I want you," she told him.

Tristan's hands rested on the curve of her hips as Rory straddled him. He continued to wait for her – letting her make the choice.

Rory chose...and moved.

She pushed down and he could feel her – trembling but certain – as the walls crashed in. Their mouths met with a stumble of things to come.

He kissed her now; and his vision was hazy with the shift of Rory's choice. He could see her – a slow blur of motion – as she rocked against him. Her hair fell to one side and it was longer than Tristan had ever remembered. His fingers got caught in the brown strands as he held her in the kiss.

The radio announcer was a muted hum in the background and Tristan and Rory moved discordantly to the drone of the announcer's voice. They were erratic and fumbling in their eagerness; like years compressed in this one moment of bodies thrusting towards merger.

It ended quickly, in the hoarse cries of the other's name. And started again; with the next version of the steady pound of Tristan in Rory. On the couch. On the coffee table. Against the wall. In bed.

The mattress squeaked and the springs buoyed then compressed as Rory wrapped her legs around him and Tristan surged deeper into her. Her fingers left marks on his back, nails digging into him. In return, his teeth grazed her shoulder and she moaned and arched at his bite. She was supple and slick and when his nose nuzzled her skin, he could smell the mingle of sweat, sex and rosewater.

When he glanced at her, Tristan was unprepared for the wrench of blue eyes, glazed with desire but also candid and open. It was like the void of layers between them had been peeled away during Rory's earlier striptease. He held her wrists down to the cream of bed sheets and entered her again and again and again, with the measured friction of all that she had to give and all that he was willing to accept.

They over-burst.

Love, desire, want, anger, pain, need, dreams, nightmares spilled out, coating their bodies. Tristan held Rory in his arms, both of them quivering, shivering, shuddering. They breathed the air of the other in raspy gasps and tried to still the tremors.

After the free fall, her body was soft and pliable against his caressing touch. He remained within her, enjoying the sensation of Rory so intricately wrapped around him. Their movements grew languid and his eyelids grew heavy. She placed a curled hand over the top of his chest – to the left, where the heart was. He closed his eyes and dreamed that Rory said: "I love you, Tristan. I've always loved you."

* * *

3 a.m. and the shrill of a familiar polyphonic tune woke Tristan up. He pulled out and away from the enticing tangle of Rory and shuffled through the dark in search for his cell phone. He found it in the living phone.

"Hello?"

"I love you, Tristan. My baby with my blues."

"Mother, where are you?" he asked with a gripping fear creeping over him.

"At home. Love you, my little boy. Goodbye."

Tristan startled at the barely lucid sing-song of his mother's voice. The fear firmly in place and he scrambled for his clothes before dashing out to his car. The engine revved too slowly for Tristan's liking as rubber tires squealed off to Hartford.

The mansion was eerie in its darkness when Tristan arrived. He hurried through rooms –too many rooms, too many closed doors, too many empty spaces – in search of his mother. It looked like the help had been dismissed; and it seemed like it was just the mansion and Tristan and no sign of Evelyn DuGrey.

Finally Tristan entered his father's bedroom – it had been twenty years since his parents had slept in the same room. He found his mother there: prostrate on the bed, pallid skin, blonde hair strewn over the pillow. She looked like Elaine – out of Arthurian legend and floating in a sea of silk sheets in the glorious beauty of death.

He walked over to her, pressed his palm against her forehead, and she was cold and clammy to touch. He tried to shake her awake, but she remained listless to his touch. "Mom? Mommy?" the little boy in Tristan cried,

"She's not dead," the low command of a barely familiar voice spoke. "She's just sleeping off three sleeping pills."

Tristan turned and saw William DuGrey standing in the shadowy glow of the bathroom, leaning against the wooden arch of the doorway.

"Father," Tristan greeted. "What the hell did you do to her?"

"Nothing. She took those pills on her own accord, Tristan."

"Bullshit. You might not have been there spoon-feeding her those pills but this is your fault nonetheless. There's a direct causal link between my mother's current state and you. This is all your fault," Tristan accused.

"You're right," William said.

The admission stunned Tristan. And then he noticed that his father's face was lined with worry. Could his father actually care?

"This is all my fault. I should have never have let things get this bad. I loved her once, you know. She was my everything but somewhere along the line it all turned to dust. And I hate her so much, now. It hurts to look at her, to see the woman she has become. And to know that it is all my fault."

"Why don't you walk away?" he had to ask. "Why do you continue to stay and hurt one another. Nowadays divorce isn't that completely scandalous."

His father rubbed his temples. The shine of the bathroom light illuminated the grey of his father's hair. "Because I still love her. And I'm not strong enough to live without her."

Maybe it was the unexpected candor of his father. Maybe it was the intimacy of the moment – father and son distanced in the room but speaking as Evelyn DuGrey lay in a motionless sleep on the bed. Maybe it was the night and shadows and the emptiness of the DuGrey mansion that compelled Tristan to speak.

"I slept with Rory," he blurted out.

His father moved away from the doorway, stepping closer and closer until all distance was bridged. He placed a hand on Tristan's shoulder and stared gravely into his son's eyes. "The Gilmore girl?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Didn't Emily just pass away?"

"Yes."

William's hand was firm and gripping against Tristan's shoulder. "Tristan, I know you've always been infatuated with that girl but taking advantage of the situation like that…"

"I didn't," he protested. "It wasn't like that. And it's not an infatuation. I love her."

"I love your mother, too," his father pointed out. "We're DuGrey men, though. We have a history of hurting the ones we love the most. We're charmed with the ability to get any woman we want and cursed with the inability to keep them happy. I'm not completely oblivious of your life, Tristan. I've seen you and this girl together and do you really want it to end like this?"

William pointed to the pale frailty of Evelyn DuGrey and Tristan's heart clenched. He wanted to scream to his father that he and Rory were different. That he, Tristan DuGrey, was nothing like William DuGrey. But the words did not come. And all he could remember was the day of Madeline's funeral: waking up naked and alone and with no sign of Rory.

"You're stronger than me. Always have been," his father continued. "And there is one thing I've always meant to tell you: I'm proud of you. In the end, you've always done the right thing, son."

Tristan nodded, accepting his father's praise. William clasped Tristan on the shoulder one more time before walking over to Evelyn and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. He then walked out of his bedroom, leaving Tristan to stare at the dark outline of his father's departing back.

Turning his attention to his sleeping mother and Tristan felt the weight of his father's words. And Tristan was acutely aware of the indentations across his back – the nail digging imprint of a too precious moment with Rory.

* * *

Autumn was falling leaves as everything died. It gave way to the bareness of winter and the brown twisted spindle of frost covered trees. Back in New York, and it was like Tristan had never left.

Tristan tried not to think of the circle of events as he stood alone on the balcony of his penthouse apartment, swirling brandy, and watching snow fall from the sky like ash. In the distance he could see the brightness of Times Square, almost too bright. Times Square was filled with neon reds, blues, greens and yellows. It hummed with electricity that powered an artificially created day. Times Square was so bright, so light that he could almost forget the darkness. Almost. He could smell the stench of the city too; a mixture of industry, metal, grime and decay that wrapped around him in wisps of white pollution, leaving him feeling dirty and used. He could hear the screams of a couple on the street way down below; and it seemed that history repeated itself, always.

It was a Sunday morning. Early morning. So early in the morning that the dawn had yet to arrive and the sky was still streaked black and grey. There were no stars and moon. There was only the monochrome of life painting the horizon. Tristan sipped his brandy and, in an undershirt and boxer shorts, he did not feel the cold.

He had left his balcony door slightly ajar and there was the constant rustle of curtains fluttering. With his ears so acutely attuned to sound, he wasn't surprised to hear the soft pad of shoes against carpet that stopped at the archway of the balcony door.

"How did you get in?" Tristan asked although he didn't turn to greet his visitor.

"I have my ways. Gilmores fight dirty, remember?" Rory said. "And this isn't a fight I'm willing to lose."

"There's no fight to lose," he told her, eyes concentrating on the random drop of snowflakes. "I've bowed out. Game over. The end."

"That's not up to you to decide," she informed him; her voice raised. "You can't just walk away."

"Why? Because you own the copyright? After all, walking away is what you do. Only this time I beat you to it."

"I wasn't going to walk away. I love you."

Her words killed him. Tristan clenched the glass of brandy so tightly; as if he could squeeze out all the blood of his hand, of his heart, of his love, in that very action.

"No, you don't," he told her.

She took a step forward. He could hear it, the click of her heels as she stepped onto the balcony. "Yes, I do. Didn't you hear me? I told you I loved you that night we slept together, for the second time. That I've always loved you."

"You don't mean that. This is just about your grandmother's death. Our having sex meant nothing. Just like after Madeline's funeral."

"That's not true. It meant everything. It means everything. Both times. I've been scared, Tristan, but I'm not scared anymore. If my grandmother's death taught me anything, it's that I've got to hold on to dear life to the people I care about. Because you never know when you could lose them. And I don't want to lose you, Tristan. It's not our time – it'll never be. I love you. I've always loved you. And I know you love me too."

Tristan took a sharp intake of breath, desperately denying her words, before letting go. The glass slipped out of his hands and smashed against the tiles of the balcony floor. Broken, shattered glass and the amber pool of spilled brandy. Without looking, Tristan knew that Rory had flinched and taken a step back. And he was glad. Cruel indifference would see him through this repeat of a past he was trying to leave.

"You didn't have to do that," she said and sounded wounded.

He wondered if she could comprehend his own festering wounds. He was still cut, in the back, with the dent of her nails and the imprint of her across his skin.

"I wasn't thirsty, anymore."

"That's no reason to throw away a good thing."

Tristan spun around and stared at Rory. His eyes penetrated hers. With a twisted line for a mouth he asked, "Were we ever a good thing? I think we spent more time hurting one another, inflicting as much pain as possible for no fucking reason at all. So, I wouldn't call us a good thing."

"You're wrong," she informed him. "We weren't a good thing. We were the best thing that has ever happened to me. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me."

He scoffed. But staring at her, as the blaze of dawn crept over the city's sky, Tristan thought Rory was still the most painfully beautiful thing in his life. The paleness of her skin was highlighted by the warmth of reds, oranges and pinks. She was the contours of lightness in the darkness of this Sunday morning. It was almost enough for Tristan to reach out and touch her. But he did not.

"I can't be the best thing that has ever happened to you. I can't be that person, Rory. I'm not genetically disposed for it."

"That's not true. I know what you're scared of. I know what happened with your mother and your father. I spoke with both of them, in my frantic search to find you. And they're different. We're different. I won't let you break me. I can't be broken. All you have to do is believe. And I'll be here to catch us if we fall."

Rory stretched out her arm and offered him her hand.

The sun rose out from the dip of the horizon basking Rory in a golden glow. The morning haze lifted. The stench of the city dissipated, swept away by the morning street cleaners. The air was fragrant with the old from the remains of yesterday, and the new from the aroma of food vendors, diners and restaurants preparing for their early-bird crowd. Tristan and Rory remained on the balcony, frozen in this hour, as the ash of snow coated them with flecks of white.

He thought of destiny, of blood, of dreams, of doing the right thing. The city's skyscrapers seemed to tower over him with the shadow of decision. Rory's hand was still outstretched and it looked pink and warm despite the cold of winter. He thought of years gone by, of Sunday morning, of destruction and falling, of this one hour, and he trembled.

But when Tristan wrapped his hand around Rory's, her fingers were small and sturdy.

**(fin)**


End file.
